Alleyways
by theallbadhat
Summary: As requested, rape warning. Sorry for the delay- will be posting regularly again. Also sorry I can't respond to reviews like I should. Lots of RL.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

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_**Alleyway- a narrow passageway**_

Don checked his gear, pulled out his gun and counted down from three, waited for the battering ram to bust in the apartment building's outside door before he began running inside, scrambling down to the basement while other agents ran up and spread out, scattering throughout the building, searching.

Eleven little boys, each snatched from a park within feet of where their mothers had been standing. Later, ten found dead, each found in a different dump spot; tortured and mutilated before death, molested after the last of their breath had long left their bodies, their innards torn out and unable to be located by the crime scene investigators. Don and his team had been given the case after the fifth child, and it would take the death of that many more before they identified a viable suspect and located the building that he used as a home base, reports that he had been seen walking around on the topmost floor, all within hours of when the eleventh boy had been reported missing.

The large Bureau task force had been gathered together and as one had surged here, to this building, the last leg of an abandoned apartment complex located at the edge of a dead-end street, far from the majority of the population of L.A., the single road leading to the kidnapper's den a broken channel of dilapidated and barren homes, a child's scream impossible to hear for miles around.

But Don had somehow managed it. While other agents threw open rotten doors and tore apart the upper rooms in a vain search for the boy and his own personal monster, Don had remembered that vile predators always hid in the cover of the night and where better to find perpetual darkness than the basement, so he headed there instead. Down, down he went- the stairway so narrow and pitch-black he felt like he was slipping down a mineshaft, only knowing where to put his feet through the experience of other raids and by the merciful grace of God. And when he reached a thick door at the bottom, he slammed through it with a force he did not think a truck could possess whether alone his body, not missing a step as he continued on, finally slowing when he reached the far wall and flicked on a flashlight, searching.

He's here, I know he is.

But all around him was emptiness. Cobwebs, dripping water down a wall, broken glass in a corner, a large rat hiding in its hole, wood sealing in the windows and the contents of the building- and us too, Don thought. We're in the belly of the beast and I know he's here, because that son of a bitch swallowed him like the animal he is, that's what they do, take them and feast on them and eat them, sucking them down their throats into their gullets and I know this is where he is, I can feel it, _dammit,_ I can feel it.

But Don saw and heard nothing that indicated they were anywhere nearby. Finally conceding defeat, he began to head towards the stairway, wondering how his gut feeling could be so far off the mark.

"_Please, Mom, make him stop."_

Don stopped, turned around and leaned forward, his flashlight down and his gun held up at the ready, tilting his head to the side so he could concentrate on locating the direction of the cry.

"_Please, Mom."_

Striding forward, Don ran his hand up and down the wall in front of him. It was drywall, easily put into place, smooth, dirty, _new_, thin strips of light framing it in its entirety, supplied by a source on its other side- Don's fingertips pressing along the edge till, there, hidden hinges poorly put in place, a knot in the center of the opposite edge.

A doorway.

Don walked back several paces, quietly described his position to the rest of the agents and then went back to the makeshift door, took three breaths, yanked it open, drove in with a mission.

Light bouncing as a bare bulb swung back and forth, the crying boy hidden under a dark figure, oddly formed objects jutting out from the wall at bold angles, Don screaming for the shape to stop, put his hands in the air, release him, horror on the boy's face as an arm swung upwards, ready to plunge a twelve-inch knife-

Blast!

One large body falling while two others rushed towards each other, tiny arms circling the neck of the stronger one, both breathing heavily in desperate attempts to take in air, frightened of what had happened, what could have happened, what had _almost _happened- of the dead man who lay still on the floor and all the evil that had once animated his now lifeless body slowly flowing from him in lines that ended in thick, gelling pools.

When the rest of Don's team arrived, they found the agent sitting on the floor cross-legged, the small boy sitting in his lap. Upon realizing the dead man continued to have a grip on his knife, the team members were not surprised to see that tears were flowing as a release from the fear and anxiety that came from being so close to death. However, they _were_ amazed to see they were absent from the face of the young boy and were completely inundating the face of their boss instead.

The boy smiled at them while he reassuringly patted Don on the back, offering comfort in the only way he knew how.

Later, after the boy had been carried away and when the room had been fully illuminated, the team had discovered the objects sticking close to the walls of the room were varied-shaped vases filled with the rotting innards of the other missing boys.

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Bobby Rogers tramped down the street, kicking a can every few feet, not knowing there was actually history behind his current choice in occupying the long day. It had been raining on and off, which prevented him from going to the park or even hanging at the corner with his crew. They were spoiled suburbanites like he was and even a little taste of foul weather sent them scurrying back inside to their computers, mp3 players, and game consoles, something Bobby refused to do.

If you were going to play punk, you did it right.

That meant gloomy weather was something you welcomed, not hid away from as if it could melt you like the witch in that movie he'd seen ages ago. Okay, it was really just a few weeks ago, but he couldn't admit he actually enjoyed fluffy little movies like that.

Munchkins were definitely _not_ punk.

The lanky teenager continued down the street, humming the few strands of music he remembered from the movie, inattentive as he left the neighborhoods he normally traversed and made a side trip into no man's land, not noticing that the houses filled with desperate life were slowly being replaced with empty buildings of deadwood and forgotten despair.

Bobby often took the bus downtown L.A. and bravely walked its streets until nearly dusk. Today's trip had begun like all the other ones he'd made. He had started rambling along from the moment he stepped off the bus, gravely thinking about life, the universe, his future, friends- and now, embarrassingly, yellow brick roads and poppies. After giving the can a good kick, Bobby followed its path until it landed against the side of a building. The teenager's eyes took in the building, slowly realizing he had never seen one like that before. Well, not in this area. Warehouses were on the outskirts of town, not anywhere close to his usual walking path.

Which meant he _wasn't _on his usual walking path.

For the first time in over four hours, Bobby lifted his eyes from the sidewalk and took in his surroundings.

_This is not good,_ he thought.

He had never seen any of these buildings on his prior walks. The teenager stared up and down the streets, trying to find a landmark or shop that would indicate to him where his present location was. But there was nothing. All of the buildings were boarded up, none of the businesses open. Suddenly scared, the teenager began to quickly walk up the road from which he'd come, but found at the juncture of it and the first cross street he came to that all of the adjacent neighborhoods were broken down and abandoned.

And he couldn't remember which of those forlorn streets he had come down to get to where he currently was. Never once had he paid attention to the names of the streets, not now or on any of his previous ventures. Somehow, he had always managed to get back to where he had started from; unfortunately, he knew that would not be true this time.

Bobby tried not to panic. He had a cell phone and could call his mom, ask her to pick him up.

Crap!

No, that wasn't a good idea. She'd kill him. Or if she had mercy and left him alive, he'd be grounded at least two weeks.

_I told you not to go downtown, didn't I?_

Okay, think. What else? Okay, okay- I can call Karen. She can come and-

Crap!

No, she's grounded from her car. Now what?

Before Bobby could think any further, his eyes caught sight of movement down one of the cross streets. Like a man dying of thirst, he ran down the street, coming upon a bar that was just opening up.

TECHNOS was spelled out in neon lights above the door.

Bobby slowed down and approached the bar. At seventeen, he knew he could not enter the establishment, but maybe he could yell in and ask for help. A few directions and he would be back in business. Picking up speed again, he headed for the sanctity of the building and was several yards from the front door when out stepped a poorly dressed but thickly built man. Bobby's eyes went wide when the man turned towards the still-open door of the bar and let loose a stream of profanity. The man was clearly drunk. Bobby stopped short of the bar's entrance, leery of the man.

The man wavered back and forth on his feet.

Bobby stepped back nervously. Suddenly, the man's eyes were on the teenager, at first propped open while running up and down the thin youth, narrowing as he saw the expensive cell phone hanging from Bobby's belt and then traveling along the chain beside it that the man supposed led to the teenager's wallet, which it did. Suburbanite or not, Bobby recognized the threat that appeared in the man's gaze, so he bolted, confident he could outrun him. That confidence was quickly shattered when he heard the guy yell into the bar for backup. Bobby looked around him for a place to hide, a building to go into, but everything was boarded up. Fear running rampant inside him, he ducked down an alley, pushed forward on and on, turned to his right down a narrower corridor and found himself at a dead end. He turned around and around, found no way out other than the opening through which he had just come.

Gotta be someplace I can hide, he thought fearfully.

The sound of voices startled him from his immobility. Somebody was following and would soon catch up to him. Terrified, Bobby searched about him one last time, finally noticing a dumpster pushed into a corner near a building in the midst of being demolished. Taking a chance, he lifted its lid and noted that it was mainly filled with old, mildewed furniture. He grabbed a nearby box, stood on it and propelled himself inside, a gasp escaping his lips when he hit the cardboard-covered bottom and the lid shut with a bang. Smartly, he pulled several chair cushions over his head and waited.

A short time later, someone banged along the outside of the container, lifted the lid, hesitated, mumbled a comment, dropped it with a loud clang and then moved on, a duo of voices fading away as the sound of footsteps receded.

Sighing in relief, Bobby sat up and rested his back against the inside of the dumpster. He tried to use his cell phone, but could get no reception. Okay, he would wait a while and then, once he was sure no one was waiting for him, he would jump out of here and immediately use his cell to call his mom and beg her to come pick him up, Bobby no longer caring if he would be grounded- even if it was for life.

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Charlie flipped open his cell phone and crisply asked, "Where the hell are you?"

Don winced. "I have some paperwork I need to finish. I'm sorry Buddy, but it doesn't look like I can make it."

Charlie waved at an alumnus standing far across the room. The youngest Eppes smiled through gritted teeth, trying to maintain his composure. "You promised, Don. It's the only thing I've asked you to do in…in…months. No, make that years. And I made promises to other people because I trusted you to come through for me."

"I know, Buddy, I'm real sorry," Don leaned back in his office chair, wiping his brow with the side of his hand, frowning as he asked, "Can't I meet them some other time? This can't be the only luncheon the math department will have this year."

"No, it won't be. But I won't need you at any of those other luncheons- I need you now, at this one." Getting nothing but another apology from Don, Charlie sighed. "Fine, I'll invite them to Dad's party tonight. Just promise you'll be _there _on time."

"I promise, Charlie. I already have my shift covered- the team's shifts, too. They left for the day a few minutes ago and will be showing up right on time for the party."

"They're not the people I'm concerned about- they seem to have less of a problem keeping their promises to me than my own brother."

"I'm sorry, Buddy."

Don clicked his phone shut and turned to the paperwork in front of him. He had actually finished it hours before, but for some reason, could not pull himself away from all of the facts it contained.

It had been almost three days since they had stopped the murderer of those ten little boys and managed to just barely rescue the eleventh one. I stopped him, Don thought glumly, by shooting him in the back. Who could have known it would be the kind of hit that missed all the bones and shot straight through the body, tearing the heart apart in the process? It had been such a perfect hit that several of his fellow agents had asked him about his technique.

Don had walked away from them without answering.

No matter how evil a person was, Don hated when he had to take a life. It was a power he sometimes wished he did not have, the right to decide to terminate another person's life, to make a decision that could not be reversed, no matter what the science fiction books claimed.

It left him second-guessing himself sometimes, wondering if there had been another choice. Most times, the choice was an obvious one and he did not doubt himself. Other times, like in this case, Don had spent so much time channeling his anger and frustration into finding the perpetrator that when he finally confronted the guy and ended up killing him, he would get a momentary feeling of satisfaction that made him question whether he had killed the man because it was him or the perp- or because he had wanted to fulfill a personal desire for vengeance.

In either case, the end result was the same for the perpetrator.

Added to his doubts over killing the murderer was his guilt over having been too late to save the other five boys. Don was not unrealistic. He knew he was not accountable for the first five, as he had yet to be handed the case before they disappeared. However, the next five were his responsibility to keep safe and in this he had failed to do. No matter they caught the perpetrator long before anyone thought they could, or the fact that all the members of his team had received commendations for a job well done. All Don knew was that he had been unable to prevent the death of the five that had been his responsibility and this failure was gnawing at his bones.

At least, that was the way he was feeling now. After a case, it was not unusual for him to experience the residual grime that any obscene crime left behind. This time, though, it was harder to scrub it off, something about the case having burrowed under Don's skin and crawled down to his bone marrow, setting up residence as if it would never leave.

It was a habit of Don's to have a few beers and spend time with his family in order to dig out this type of emotional parasite, but Don had forfeited that routine the last two nights, not wanting to burden them with his problems at a time when they were busy with issues in their own lives. His father had spent the last week trying to land a major account and though he was now in a chipper mood after having closed it earlier that morning, up until then he had spent all of his time wringing his hands and worrying. Charlie had been preoccupied with the luncheon for the math department, as well as a birthday party for their father that was now going to serve the duo purpose of celebrating his father's newly acquired account. It was to be held that night, Charlie having made preparations well in advance and having received no help at all from his elder brother, another source of guilt that had attached itself to Don.

No, Don did not want to lay his baggage on them at this point in time. It could wait. Tonight was for toasting success and the obtainment of another year of life, not for mourning failure and the loss of five others.

Don glanced at the time and was surprised to see that the entire afternoon had passed since he had last talked to Charlie. He regretted having lied to his brother, first about the paperwork and second about being on time to the party. Don knew he could not spend the entire night in a room full of jovial family members and friends when he himself was in an opposing mood. So, he had decided long before calling Charlie that he would go very late, at a time when the festivities were dying down and he could find a nice corner to hide in-

-After he finished talking to the CalSci alumni, of course.

Charlie was seeking funds to enable his department to expand their applied mathematics curriculum. And what better way to convince the alumni of the validity of such funding than to show them the results of his own personal work with the F.B.I.? Charlie had relied on his own knowledge of mathematics to discuss the details of this work, but he had been counting on Don to supply the pizzazz- the end results of his mathematical efforts, when Don and his buddies would take the information written on boring paper and apply it to the field. Charlie knew his brother was a charmer and would captivate the alumni with stories filled with action and guns and drugs and gangsters and raids to save people, sometimes arriving at the last minute before a bomb went off or a victim was killed.

Charlie was 99.82 per cent positive the combination of rational thought and daring deeds would win the alumni over and his department would have funding for the next half decade at the very least.

Only, he had been let down by me, Don thought miserably. Knowing he couldn't put it off any longer, he called Charlie.

"Hey, bro," Charlie answered cheerfully, "You heading over?"

"No, Charlie. I haven't finished with that paperwork yet."

There was silence through the phone. Don nervously waited to hear his brother's response, anticipating it would not be good.

"Don," Charlie started slowly, his brother able to picture the younger man tugging agitatedly on a lock of hair, "you _promised_ me that you would be on time. The party starts in less than an hour."

"I'm sorry, but this report has to be finished."

"Not right now it doesn't." The frustration that had been growing in Charlie came steadily through the phone. "I don't understand what the problem is. It's bad enough you lied to me about talking at the luncheon. But this is Dad's birthday party and he's going to want you here- and not at midnight or later when you can slink in so nobody notices you, but early on when he can be sure you were actually here."

Don shook his head, swiping a hand through his own hair. It was amazing how well Charlie knew him.

"I'm sorry, Buddy. I know I promised- and you and Dad deserve more from me, but I can't make it till later. Honestly, midnight sounds about right."

"That's not good enough!" Charlie snapped into the phone. "None of my prospective donors will be here past 6:30. You know, every time you ask _me_ for a favor, I come running like a dog to his master. Do you know how many seminars I have passed up and how many invitations to lecture that I declined just so I could run some numbers for you, sometimes on cases that weren't even that significant in the long run or that you solved halfway through my computating? Never once have I complained- not one single time." Charlie paused, sighed. "Okay, forget helping me with the math department- now all I'm asking in return for all the help I've given you is for you to show up at a party I've been working on for over a month- not for me, but for _our_ father."

"I'm sorry for not thanking you enough for all you've done for me."

"Don't tell me thanks, Don. I want you to _show_ me thanks. It's obviously too much to ask that you show up in time to speak to the alumni, but I don't think I'm asking too much when I say you need to be here at our home earlier, not later tonight- for Dad's sake, not mine."

Don was silent. He had expected Charlie to be upset, but he was surprised to hear the anger in his voice. Don began nervously tapping his fingers on the desk. "Okay, I'll see if I can leave by nine-thirty."

"No deal- if you leave that late, you won't get here until ten-thirty at the earliest- if you're lucky enough to avoid running into any traffic delays; and it's Friday night, so you know there're _going _to be delays. Look, it's already five o'clock, so just punch out and call it a night- you can be here by six-thirty easy- seven if you have to be difficult about it. Hell, I'll settle for eight."

"Buddy, I swear, I just can't get away"-

"Stop making excuses that I don't want to hear. Either get here by eight or don't bother showing up at all. And Don, if you can't drag your ass over here by then, in the future you can just consider yourself person non grata as pertains to me and my house- period ."

Don pulled his phone from his ear and stared at it, stunned that Charlie had hung up on him.

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Charlie put away his cell phone and went into his kitchen. Carefully, he began to gather packages of plastic cups and carry them to the buffet in the dining room. The table was already set up to carry the large assortment of prepared food he had ordered and picked up on the way home from the mathematics luncheon. Opening the packages and arranging the cups on the buffet, Charlie thought about his brother.

Megan had called him after she had arrived at her apartment, confiding in Charlie that his brother had been in a real mood since their last case- a particularly nasty one that Don had pointedly not discussed with Charlie.

"We almost lost a victim, Charlie," Megan told him, "for some reason, Don hasn't been able to get over it."

"He once told me that his mind is often a bad neighborhood to be in when a case is over."

"That's true about a lot of us. But we eventually find our way out of it and head back home again after the final papers are filed. That was this morning."

"So, what's wrong? He can't find his way back home?"

"Yes, Charlie, I think that's exactly it."

"Is it possible to tell me something about what happened? I might be able to get a handle on what's really bothering Don."

"I can't be specific, but I can tell you some generalities about the case. On Tuesday, we raided this empty apartment building the perp was using as his hideout and Don went off on his own, heading downstairs to the basement. Our perp was there, right in the process of killing his next victim- a child, Charlie. Don stopped him, but it was close. Real close- maybe too close."

"Did he have to kill the perpetrator? I know Don hates when he has to use lethal force."

"Yes, Charlie, he did."

"Then that must be a part of the problem."

"I know you're right, because I have seen the bad moods Don gets in after he has made a kill. But there's something more going on and I think it has more to do with the child he saved than the perp he killed. When everything was over, that child, a little boy, he didn't seem as upset about what had almost happened as Don did himself. The boy seemed to take it so well I even thought twice about sending him to the hospital- but protocal dictates we had to in order to have him thoroughly checked out. Thing is, Don insisted on putting the child in the ambulance himself and when it drove away, he stood at the end of the street and stared after it, like he was little boy lost and was being left behind. I've never seen him look so depressed when sending away someone we saved- someone we lost, sure, but not a _survivor_."

"I suppose he hasn't said anything to you?"

"No, he hasn't. Of course, he had to see the department shrink, but by now he probably knows the right things to say and the correct emotions to show in order to stay in the field."

"You mean he's a good fake."

"Yes, that's exactly it."

"Thanks for the heads up, Megan."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Well," Charlie had told her, "I am going to use every upset-little-brother trick I know to get him to come as early as possible tonight. Don always thinks he should solve his problems on his own- that is, until he's surrounded by his family and friends and is reminded that he doesn't have to."

"Sounds like a plan. See you later, Charlie. I'll be on hand to help."

And Charlie had done as promised, sounding as angry and upset with Don as he ever had, the crowning effect being when he hung up on him. The result was that the conversation had ended on an extremely sour note and if Charlie knew his brother well, then Don would already be heading over to sweeten it up with an apology. Charlie knew he would have to pretend to be hurt and that Don would then offer to do anything to make it up to him.

Participation would be Charlie's price for forgiveness and hopefully, when Don was done paying the fee, he would have found his way back home again, leaving behind that dark neighborhood in which his mind was insisting on residing.

_Come home, Don, come home._


	2. Chapter 2

Charlie's tactics worked and Don left the office immediately after his brother hung up on him. But when Don drove up to Charlie's house, he stopped about a block away. His brother had warned him that he would not be welcome at the house anymore if he didn't show up by eight- which Don would miss by twenty minutes- but he knew better than to take the threat seriously. He and Charlie often exchanged words but did not take them to heart; rather, they let them stomp on their feelings a little, maybe twist their elastic egos out of shape for a second or two before they easily rebounded, but they never allowed the fleeting words of an argument to take a permanent hold in their souls and displace the love they had between them. Both brothers had grown to trust each other and the relationship that had only recently developed between them, the wide bridge that used to separate them now honed down to a narrow pathway that no longer divided them but kept them close as they traveled as one upon it, never straying from their singular path, partners while working at the Bureau and friends in almost everything else.

With the comfortable knowledge that he would be welcome, Don put his car into gear and headed towards Charlie's house, but he drove past at the last moment, still uncertain if he wanted to spend the night with his loved ones while his mind was still occupied with his last case. If he brought his dark mood to what was supposed to be a carefree and celebratory night, it was sure to affect the other attendees and Don hated the idea of ruining a party that his brother had worked so long and hard on- and that his father more than deserved.

Don drove around the block three times before he decided it would be best not to stop and talk to his brother, though he hated the idea of having Charlie be angry with him and not doing anything about it as soon as possible. On the other hand, Charlie would still be there after midnight and Don could talk to him then. Overall, the best decision he could make about arriving on time would be his original one: let his family and friends relax and enjoy themselves while he took his dark thoughts to the kind of place where they belonged- the most common companion to all troubled men, the local bar. Spinning his wheel, Don sharply turned the next corner and headed into the city, deciding the first place he came upon would be the best. Any of the hangouts he was used to going to would have law enforcement officers like him filling them to the rafters and he didn't need their burdens added to the one he was already carrying around so heavily.

At the juncture of two raggedy streets, Don sighted a building that looked newly built, bright fluorescent lights highlighting the name "TECHNOS" in garish blues and oranges above the front door. Men in custom-tailored suits walked in and out of the entrance, over-painted women clinging to their arms, the female forms openly exhibited through the strands of fabric that they unbelievably called clothing. As Don drove by, he noticed the place was surrounded by old warehouses and office buildings, some of them in the middle of being torn down, signs out front proudly announcing "The Future Home of…"

It was clear that the bar had been the first in a long line of revitalization projects for this part of town, and based upon the business it was doing, Don thought it had been an unusual but definitely good decision to make it the focal point of the area, though that type of bar wasn't really his cup of tea.

Usually, that is.

Tonight, Don wanted to be away from his usual haunts. The loud nerve-wracking music blaring from the techno bar and the uppity suits clamoring in and out of the place were signs that the establishment was definitely in deep contrast to any of the places he would have typically stopped. Seeing an empty parking space, Don abruptly swerved his car into it. After setting his alarm, he walked briskly back up the street , his eyes observing the neighborhood and keeping an eye out for trouble, unable to turn off his training and experience as he began to realize how rundown and deserted the area was. There was no other businesses besides the bar, not even a small shop or fast food joint to indicate any living soul came through on a regular basis, making the bar a sort of oasis in the middle of the deserted neighborhood.

Once at TECHNOS, Don started to pass a bouncer at the door, was held back for a quick observation, then he flashed his badge and pushed his way inside through a crowd of people congregating near the door. He stumbled inside and immediately tried to reign in his senses. The place was pulsing, literally, from too many bodies gyrating against each other on a central dance floor, too many strobe lights constantly blinking harsh brilliance throughout the room, and throbbing music shaking the building to its very core. Don hesitated at the forefront of this onslaught, having doubts about his decision to trust that having a drink with strangers in this sensory blitzkrieg would more easily dispel the feelings he had left from the case than having one in the calming comfort of his family and friends.

Just as he was about to turn around and leave, a friendly hand landed on his arm and he was pulled into a room adjacent to the main area of the bar.

Inactivity assailed Don from all sides as a thick door closed behind him. He found he was standing in a quiet side room with only two other patrons, both sitting at an old-fashioned mahogany bar with a TV at its end, the local baseball game turned on at a muted level of sound. The bartender was seated on a stool behind the counter, speaking to both of the people at the bar, their interchanges spoken at barely a whisper. There were three tables set against the left-hand wall in the narrow room, each covered by a checkered tablecloth and accompanied by two chairs. An exit was located in the far corner. Sports memorabilia covered the walls.

"Name's Nick," a voice said from behind Don.

Don turned slowly, looking at the man who had saved him from the onslaught of the main bar's atmosphere. The man was slightly younger than him, probably early thirties by Don's estimation, standing several inches taller than the agent and sporting a shaved face and head. Looks like that new action hero, Don thought when he noticed the tanned muscles that bulged slightly from under Nick's black tee-shirt; the guy made a good car racing flick, then that one where he was a spy- before that lame comedy.

"I'm Don." He held out his hand and shook the other man's, not surprised to feel a strong grip. Nodding towards the room behind him, Don asked, "What's up with this?"

"Owner's way of pleasing everybody- you know, including people like you and me who would normally stay away from that amusement park ride you just exited," Nick flicked his thumb back towards the main bar, "which is TECHNOS' main attraction."

Don chuckled. "Thanks for helping me get off before I got sick. Can I buy you a beer as a way of saying thanks?"

"Take a free brew anytime of the week." Nick headed towards the table nearest the exit, Don following close behind. The bartender lifted his chin and an eyebrow. Don headed over, paid for two beers, waiting while the drinks were opened with a clink, and took the bottles to the table, handing one to Nick while they both took a seat. The two men sat silently nursing their drinks while they watched the game. When it became apparent the Dodgers were going to lose again, quite early in the second inning, Nick started to converse.

"If this isn't your type of bar, TECHNOS that is, what possessed you to stop in?"

"Have a lot on my mind and, I don't know, I didn't want to burden my family with it."

Nick grinned. "You thought it would be better to dump it on a bunch of strangers instead?"

Don returned the grin. "Yeah, something like that. Not that anything I have to say would register with the people out there." He pointed at the main bar with the top of his beer. "I think that's why I stopped- I could unwind, download all my crap, and no one would leave here carrying it- not even me."

Nick sat back and stared at Don. "I'm a pretty solid kind of guy. Download all you want- I can bear the burden."

Don shook his head. "Nah, that's okay. I'll feel better after having a few drinks. That's what really does the trick."

"Whatever you say." Nick went to the bar and bought them a couple more beers. He stopped on his return trip to the table, looking up at the TV with his back to Don, commenting, "Man, do they ever suck!" before turning around and heading towards the table again, finally sitting down and setting a beer in front of Don.

Don watched the TV, swallowing half of his beer in one gulp. Beside him, Nick started talking to him about his job, telling the agent about problems he was having with his wife, and describing in detail a classic car he was rebuilding. Don listened attentively, facing the other man again as the Dodgers blew another play. In time, Don found himself talking about his own life and problems, touching on the brother he had who was a genius and his father's new career in consulting, a few vague references to the paperwork at his job without indicating he was in law enforcement or the particular branch he was in. Don hadn't been wearing his gun since the shooting on Tuesday, so he hoped to keep his F.B.I. affiliation a secret, not wanting Nick to become stiff or reserved in the things he told Don, as the agent was only being so honest about his own feelings because Nick had opened up so freely for him.

After pouring out all of his emotions to his current companion, Don swallowed the last of his beer and stood, planning to buy them two more before calling it a night so he could finally head over to Charlie's. Suddenly, the room was lopsided and Don sank to his seat, wobbling back and forth, a flush of dizziness weaving throughout his body.

"Hey, are you alright?" Nick put a steadying hand out to Don's back, keeping the agent upright on his chair.

"Dun know," Don mumbled, almost incoherently adding, "fill fu-eee."

"You feel funny?" Nick asked as he stood up, slipping his right arm around Don's back. "Here, let me help you." He pulled Don up from the chair while at the same time he put his left arm across the agent's chest.

Don, breathing heavily, lay against Nick. His head lolled around as he tried to lift it so he could see straight ahead of them; he finally gave up and rested it on Nick's upper chest, the other man maneuvering his right arm under Don's left and lifting his weight, shifting his footing until he had a good hold on Don. "I think I have you now."

Don barely nodded his head against the other man. "Sworry."

"Hey, no problem. You must be more upset than you thought for the liquor to hit you this hard. Let me help you to your car- if you don't mind, I'll drive you home." Receiving a slight nod in agreement, Nick started walking slowly towards the door, Don moving sluggishly beside him.

When they got to the door, the bartender rushed around the counter and held it open for them and Nick told him thanks. Once outside, Nick's pace quickened a little and Don felt like he was practically being dragged along the sidewalk because he was unable to match the stride. Don tried to concentrate, but found that he was having difficulty focusing on just one thing as he was overly aware of his environment, including the most subtle movement, as everything was happening in slow-motion. Despite Nick's new walking speed, Don perceived their pace to be languid, like they were moving under water. He lifted his hand to stare at it, his head continuing to swing loosely on his neck, and found he could not visually separate his individual fingers- he was looking at one smear of pale peach color against a larger background of blurry colors. With the smell of rain still in the air, Don was certain that he had entered a water color universe in which the raindrops that had fallen on his environment had caused everything to drip and run down to the gutters. Everything around him and his feelings inside were blended and surreal.

But in between, momentary bursts of reality broke in and Don could clearly see they were not heading towards his truck. Licking his lips several times, Don quietly muttered, "Wrong direction."

Nick ignored him. He entered an alleyway and started down it, knowing that he was going in the right direction for what he planned. Don sensed the danger somewhere in his gut and tried to drop back to the street they were steadily leaving behind them, but Nick just strengthened his grip on him, tightly wrapping his arms around him so the agent could not get away. Too weary to fight, Don allowed the other man to half-carry him to whatever destination he had in mind.

About one block down, Nick turned right, heading down a narrow pathway that was an offshoot of the main alleyway. It was darker here, no lights showing on the empty buildings that formed the framework surrounding them and making their way a narrow tunnel. Don briefly wondered how the man could see where they were going and decided it must be by instinct. This was obviously a place that was familiar to Nick.

It's probably his lair, Don thought, worried about his predicament when he could form a thought, but unable to feel the anxiety because of his intoxicated state. Or was he intoxicated? In and out, in and out- ideas managed to form then disappear, over and over again as Don tried to figure out if there was any way he could escape whatever fate Nick had in store for him.

Finally reaching an alcove, Nick stopped and laid Don against a set of concrete stairs. A light flashed as someone else lit a cigarette and Don realized they were not alone.

"Not bad, huh?" Nick told the other person.

From the opposite direction to the glowing cigarette another disembodied voice came out of the air. "Oh, yeah. Not bad at all."

Don wondered what they were going to do. He tried to reach for his weapon, but was surprised to feel it was missing. Moments passed and he remembered the Bureau still had it because of the shooting the other day.

Moments stretched into hours in Don's mind as he saw two men slowly approach him, taking forever to breach the small distance between them and him. Don tried to back up the stairs, but was stopped by two sets of hands grabbing his arms and pulling him to his feet. Then, roughly, one man shoved him from behind into the arms of another. Don stumbled and almost fell, but the man in front held him up, pressing their bodies closely together. Behind him, Don felt another man come up and latch onto him, so that the agent was sandwiched between the two strangers.

Don tried to break free, but his arms were quickly pinned from behind. He stared up through half-closed eyes at the man in front of him, their faces mere inches away.

"What you wan?" Don managed to ask. It had entered his mind- and momentarily fled before returning once again- that he had a lot of enemies. Maybe these guys had been hired to work him over, or torture him- maybe even kill him- any of them for payback. There was any number of criminals that Don had put away who would be willing to offer big bucks to exact revenge on the federal agent who had helped to get them incarcerated. Whichever method of punishment comprised their plans, Don knew he was at their complete mercy.

All four men laughed.

Four?

Don realized a fourth man had materialized out of the blackness, a slim wave of moonlight revealing him to be leaning against a dumpster, the lines of his body relaxed as he tapped a quiet beat against the container's metal side. Nick stood several feet away, shaking his head.

"Can I pick 'em or what?" he said amusedly.

Beginning to think these men were not out to exact revenge, that he had been a randomly picked target, Don tried to ask them again what they wanted. But his lips would not move like he wanted them to, so the only thing he managed to get out was an unintelligible utterance of puzzlement and confusion.

The man in front of him leaned closer, his eyes suddenly serious and his facial expression one that was hard to read. He bent forward and kissed Don on the mouth, and when finished, he pulled back several inches, smiling wickedly.

"Have I answered your question satisfactorily?"

Yes, Don thought, yes.

Don panicked, his thoughts clearing as his adrenaline level rose at last and sped throughout his body. He tried thrusting his head backwards, but his coordination was off and he missed his captor's by a wide margin. Trying to worm his way out of the hands still pinning his arms, he struck out widely with his feet and twisted his torso back and forth, trying to escape. His efforts were weak and he was unable to control his attack, his blows not hitting their desired targets with precision.

The man pinning Don allowed him to struggle, knowing that the agent's energy would soon be sapped. Minutes later, the man's assumption was proved correct as Don stilled, breathing heavily from the effort and unable to move, barely able to stand. The man dropped his hands to Don's waist, holding him in place, while the man in front gripped Don's shoulders, pulling their faces together once again.

As a last resort, Don tried to escape by hiding in the recesses of his mind, picturing batting cages and Quantico and fugitive recovery and his family and friends and some of the theories that his brother had told him, the agent desperately trying to use the survival techniques he had been taught to use when being tortured. However, none of them worked, as his ability to control his mind was lost to him, marred by what he was now certain had to have been a drug added to his beer by the man he had befriended and trusted with his earlier burden.

It was a trust that had been foolishly given and now easily betrayed.

Don's senses were overwhelmed again, all the things that they began to do to him affecting him tenfold, a hundredfold, as he continued to be overtly aware of his surroundings and everything that was occurring, as if every single touch and taste and sight and smell was being held in place by an unseen hand, placed in front of him to experience for elongated periods of time until the next assault began, minutes ticking away as if days, weeks, months, years-

The feel of his belt buckle being undone, of fabric being yanked across skin, of rough concrete and burning pain and brittle cuts.

The taste of dirt and grime mixed with brick dust and stone.

The brief views of the four men around him, near him, by him, too close, of darkness and deceptively mellow moonlight.

The smell of oil and stale water mingling with the heavy scent of urine and decay.

The sound of grunting and groaning and laughing and snickering and obscene words and finally screaming, long and agonizing-

The only sound Don could clearly pinpoint as coming from himself.

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	3. Chapter 3

Bobby hadn't meant to fall asleep.

Only, he had gotten comfortable lying on the couch cushions and with nothing to do, he had easily been lulled into a lethargic state with the combination of their softness and the relief that the two men seeking him had walked away.

It was deep into night when he was abruptly awakened by the raspy noise of someone scratching their nails along the dumpster's exterior, the minor gesture cutting a shallow but significant groove into the peeling paint that was paralleled by a slender path that etched its way across Bobby's skin, drawing forth delicate rivers of anxiety from every one of his nerve endings and setting him on a thin edge of panic.

They're back, the teen thought apprehensively. He remained still as he heard voices speaking in low murmurs immediately outside the container, his heart drumming so loudly he unconsciously clutched at it to contain its volume within the palm of his hand, curiosity finally getting the better of him and he shifted his position ever so slightly so he could peek through a narrow crack in the corner, his view incredibly expansive in scope but limited in obtaining but the minutest details by the solidity of blackness that dwelled in the confined alleyway in which the dumpster remained, a strip of moonlight exposing a minimum of the guts that was the center of the corridor before him.

Time passed slowly.

Bobby smelled smoke, the bitter taste of a cigarette wafting in through his mouth and tickling at his throat. In the spare light the glowing tip emanated, Bobby saw the handsome but hard face of a man who appeared not much older than him, his thick body outlined briefly when he stepped away from his reclining position against the side of the dumpster, standing straight into the shaft of moonlight, his head tilted as if listening. On the other side of the thin sheet of metal that shielded Bobby, the youth imitated the angling of the man's head, slowly detecting the sound of shuffling feet coming from the mouth of the alleyway, watching as the man slid back under the blanket of black that was laid heavily beside the dumpster. Two more men slid past, gliding through the illumination of the moon, their bodies briefly emitting an ethereal glow before fading away into the nothingness that lay beyond as the night swallowed them whole.

"Can I pick them or what?"

The teen listened attentively as the men outside began to scurry around, mumblings, odd noises and thumps, tears, rips, laughter, grunts-

_Screaming!_

Bobby fell back into the pile of cushions with a quiet thud, ran his hands through the thick tendrils of hair that topped his head, pulling away palms slick with sweat, licking his lips and-

_Gasp!_

Breath, you have to breath-

Sucking in air with deep, fast gulps, legs trembling because people screamed in the movies and in video games and on TV but they didn't sound like that, didn't start with a short sobbing wrench and build to a high-pitched crescendo like their voices were scrambling up a chalkboard, reaching for a ledge to pull away from the pain and torture that the teen could hear the men outside assaulting the man with, and _oh, Lord, _he could shut it off at home but this wasn't stopping-

_It's forever and ever and ever._

Silence.

Startled, Bobby leaned forward. Pressing his eye to the slit in the dumpster's inner facade, he could see two men in the barren moonlight, the younger one kneeling as he felt the head of a man half-naked and prone on the ground with thick pitch marring his face and temple, his attacker running a finger through it before snorting like a beast to his friends.

"A little bloody, but he's alive."

What- what's he doing?

The teen watched as the immobile man was completely unclothed by the other and then rolled onto his back, the motion elaborating moans from the man so piercingly agonizing the youth felt their vibrations through the thickness of the steel and slight distance that separated them, the movements of one, two, three, four men as they circled their prey, one finally approaching, kneeling and lying a hand on a taught stomach, steadying, pulling his zipper down with the other and pushing forward, ready for his turn at... then, then...

Bobby cried out in fear, fell back from his peephole.

"What was that?"

_Oh, God, please, please, please, don't let them hear me, don't let them find me, don't let them see me, don't let them do that- do that to me, please God-_

_please, please, please!_

Footsteps, slow, searching, nearing-

"It was just a damn cat, you jackass! Come on, your turn you stupid"-

Bobby breathed slowly, gripped his jeans as he was leaning forward, listening though he couldn't watch, but oh he had to hear, had to know- where were they?- then slow sobbing, begging, torturous whining starting low with a deep groan then surging into a keening wail-

_Stop! Stop! Stop!_

The teen rocked back and forth, biting the thin skin between his thumb and index finger as his own whimpers threatened to escape and alert _them_ to his location, the despair of the events _too_ _close _to him resonating through the enclosed space in which he sat as captured witness to cold hell resounding in the night, soon his palms slamming against his ears in tormented anger because they were betraying him through their admission of the horrid _slams_ of flesh and nails and pleading _moans_ of human anguish and bestial _grunts _of wicked pleasure...

Time and the world spun away from Bobby, the teen's mind whirling with horror when the evil from without slowly funneled in through the crack of the dumpster and sucked him up and up in its slowly ascending vortex, caught in a nightmare from which he had no exit route, trapped at the climax of a crime inside an alleyway whose singular opening could only be reached if he first blew through-

_That, that, that._

Hours passed though as days.

Finally, silence.

The click of a lighter, an intake of breath, the thump of a boot against a yielding body-

footsteps and crackling laughter slowly pulling out of the passageway, absorbed by the night.

Bobby sat still.

_Pay attention, listen, careful, have to be sure._

Silence.

One eye daring to peek, the single source seeing no undulations in the blackness indicating hidden bodies, a clear absence of other souls save but one.

Hesitantly, the teen lifted the lid to the dumpster, clutched at his cell phone, stared around him then slipped over the side, falling nimbly on his feet before racing to the man, kneeling beside him, timidly touching his back, his side, his face, pulling back a hand covered in liquid showing red in the eerie light, Bobby staring upwards at the moon with a condemning glare that it had watched all that had happened and done nothing, dropping to sit beside the man because he needed contact with something, someone that didn't embody the depravity that had taken place that night but who was as much of a victim of it as Bobby himself, feeling joined to the man in misery and sorrow, ignorant of his nudity as he pressed near him in a desperate attempt to fend off the isolation that was thrusting down on them in that alleyway.

_Think, think, think._

Years of training and television and media blitz informed the teen that he should call the police. He flipped open his cell and cried out in shock and relief that he had a signal, pulling his arm tighter around the man's waist as he thought about the law enforcement officials that would soon arrive with lights blaring to chase away the heavy shadows that entombed them in the tunnel in which they despondently waited, the suddenly oh so youthful boy unable to keep his fingers from instinctively dialing another number instead.

"_Bobby! Where have you been! I was just about to call the police! I swear you better have a more believable excuse than "my phone went dead" this time or you are grounded for the next two weeks. You have no idea what you put me through every time you go off with your friends and refuse to let me know where"-_

"Mom-my," Bobby whispered quietly, thick heavy tears making their way out of his eyes at last, sobs catching his breath in his throat as his chest heaved ponderously, "I...I...I...nuh-need...he-lp."

_Mommy?_

_Did my seventeen-year old punk-dressing-last-month-can-I-call-you-Angie-no-you-cannot--son just call me Mommy?_

Immediately, the tone of voice on the phone shifted from habitual scolding to a mother's controlled alarm. "Bobby baby, where are you? Tell Mommy where you are?"

"I...I...uh...I...du-don't know-uh."

"Please, baby, try to think. Please tell Mommy where you are so she can come get you. Please, baby, _please._"

"Du-don-don't know-uh."

Hard crying stormed through the phone and tore at the heart of the woman at the other end.

"Oh, baby, please, listen to me. Tell me what you see, tell Mommy anything you see around you."

Two wet eyes looked around before replying. "Its-uh all bl-bl-black." He stared down his arm to where it laid across the back of the man, pulled it up and held his hand in front of his face, watching the liquid drip down towards his elbow. "There's tu-too mu-much blo-od."

Hysteria was caught on a leash just before it raced through the phone to the youth. Reining her emotions in and focusing all of her conscious thought on obtaining the information she urgently needed, the woman began once again, a false calm reaching out for her son, "Bobby, listen carefully. Where is the last place you remember being? Can you tell me a business or a street? Do any of your friends live nearby? Think, baby- where were you heading earlier?"

Bobby dropped his head between his knees, thinking, flashes appearing in his mind from the previous night. Exiting the bus, walking, finding the can and kicking it along, _munchkins_, empty warehouses, boarded up homes, deserted streets, a brightly lit building at the end of the road (_does the wizard live there?_), guards- no, a drunk, then two, being chased _down the road_, into the alleyway, lost, hiding, fear, panic, blackness, _yellow moonlight_, sleep, smoke, laughter, screams, horror, _please help me,_ fading footsteps _down the-_

"Yel-low bb-brick ruh-road."

As the teen watched, solitary drops of blood dripped off his fingertips and splashed on his shoes, Bobby reaching down to wipe them clean with one hand but instead smearing more liquid red across the white leather, dropping the phone from his other hand in a further attmept to repair the damage, his mind plagued by the confusion of reality and prior images so he thought _ruby slippers_ and as he continued to spiral away from logical thought he gripped the man's waist tight because they had to go together, no, he couldn't leave him here in this nightmare place, closed his eyes and clicked his heels together three times and wished and wished-

_There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home-_

His mother's voice at the threshold of his sanity, calling to him and maybe it had worked because he could hear her but he opened his eyes and it didn't, oh, why didn't it work, Mommy, why didn't it? His attention drawn from the blood on his shoes back to the salvation of the phone, blubbering into the mouthpiece when he lifted and pressed it against his lips a second time, "Mom-my, I wan-na co-come uh ho-hoome."

"Oh, ba-by," soft cry of relief upon hearing her son, "I want you to come home, too. Please, baby, I can-can't do it if you don't tell Mommy where you are."

"I-I-I duh-n't know," with hiccups echoing like pounding feet off the walls of the warehouses about him.

"Please, baby," emotional constraint unraveling, "just one thing, that's all I ne-ed to come get you. Pl-ease, baby, tell Mommy one place you saw to-to-day, one st-street."

Warehouse, homes, streets, nothing, nothing, nothing-

Sounds down the alley!

Bobby sat still, praying again.

Footsteps?

Adrenaline forcing him to think fast-

Warehouse, homes, streets, nothing, nothing, nothing, _sign,_ drunk, bar-

"TECHNOS," he whispered clearly into the phone before shutting it off and down, not wanting the noise of its ringing to give away his and the man's presence if his mom were to call back. Scuffling, something dropped a ways down the perpendicular pathway, mumbling, footsteps for sure. Beside him, the man stirred slightly, briefly flickered open two eyes and shifted his body with an achingly slow movement and low tormented groans, curling into a fetal position, startling the teen before slowly reminding him of his little brother because he slept that way all curled up on the couch _at home_, the loving memory drawing from deep in his gut the primal urge to protect the man, shock keeping the youth from clear planning but instincts propelling him from the man to search, search, search until he found a thin, long pipe, returning to sit next to his ward as sentinel against whoever, _whatever_, came after them next, images of _flying monkeys _ripping into them bringing forth silent tears as he waited petrified.

Time sat down beside them, barely moving.

Then-

Shrill shrieks circumvented the buildings encompassing them, Bobby crouching low and looking towards the sky because monkeys screeched, maybe they were coming after all, weapon held tightly in sticky palms, padding over to the entrance of the alleyway because now there was growling and he wouldn't let them get the man, he would go mad if he watched them do _that_ and he had to listen to _that_ again, no, he couldn't, he just couldn't. Spinning lights off the far wall, voices- and he hid within himself, only raising the pipe above his head in a position ready to strike because panic told him to as he heard footsteps, footsteps, _footsteps!_

"Woa! Take it easy there."

Then he was falling, the clang of the pipe in unison to his fainting into the arms of the police officer standing before him.

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An ambulance sat open with lights going at the entrance to the alleyway, one L.A. police department squad car and another unmarked one were both sitting beside it in the main alley and blocking one exit out. A third car pulled up behind them and out walked a man with a strong carriage, striding through the police officers and crime scene technicians that were just taking out their equipment, ignoring the man two EMTs were prepping to be lifted onto a stretcher some distance away as he searched for the man in charge, easily finding him kneeling in front of a teenage boy who was slouched under a blanket in the back of the second squad car.

When he approached, the officer in charge rose to greet him, "Gary, what are you doing here?"

Lieutenant Gary Walker offered his hand to Lee Mitchell, nodded down the alleyway that ran to their right and the EMTs working on the victim, "I just barely caught the call running over the radio; when I heard something about gang activity, I figured it'd be heading my way eventually so I wanted to catch an early look."

Mitchell sighed, pulled Walker to the side so they could talk out of earshot of the teen, who stared ahead, unseeing.

"Rookie called it wrong. It was gang _rape,_ not activity."

Walker looked around, grunted at the wasted trip but having nothing else on his agenda and being mildly interested, he asked, "Sure it wasn't just some consensual rough sex going on?"

Shaking his head, Mitchell told him, "I'm positive. From what I can get from the kid over there, which isn't much, seems like the guy was screaming for them to stop from the moment they first touched him."

"Kid saw it go down?"

"From the way he's acting, he saw _everything. _If they ever pull anyone in on it he should be able to ID each and every one of the perps, depending on how mental he is at the time. He's not really coherent right now; hopefully he'll be better once his mom gets here."

Walker glanced over at Bobby. "He's got a lot of blood on him. What'd they do, make him watch? Or," he winced at the thought, "or participate?"

"Nah, he was hiding in the dumpster over there, watching until he realized what they were doing, I think. The blood might be from him trying to protect the guy after the perps left- looks like he was keeping an arm around him while he called his mom for help."

Walker's eyes lit up in surprise. "Kid suburbia didn't go screaming out of here the first chance he got, huh?"

"Hell, he not only stayed with the guy, when the first uniform arrived on the scene he was wielding a pipe to defend him."

With a low whistle, Walker turned back towards the squad car and took in the youth with an appreciative scan. "How many perps we talking about, or was the kid able to tell you?"

"He said he saw four men. Well, at first he said something about flying monkeys, but with a little coaching he finally admitted he was talking about men. Like I said, he's not really making much sense right now- didn't when he called his mom, either. All she could tell dispatch was the name of that bar around the corner- if the bouncer hadn't seen him run in here earlier tonight, uh, last night, don't know how long it would've taken to find him."

"Hmph. Wonder what a kid like that was doing in this area anyway. There are easier and safer places for him to score a few drugs."

"Not sure yet, but I have a feeling the bouncer knows more than he's saying, guy looked kinda guilty 'bout something. Gonna go back and interview him again later, get the complete story out of him."

Walker finally decided he'd heard enough to satisfy his curiosity. Politely, he listened to a few more details then excused himself, having just started to walk away when a young uniform raced up to Mitchell, holding out a wallet by one of its corners. "Sir, I found this tossed over near that stairway."

Mitchell was suddenly busy reprimanding the uniform for not allowing the proper personnel to search the crime scene, so he did not notice the flash of metal that came from within the main fold of the wallet but it did not escape the keen eyes of Walker. The lieutenant horrified Mitchell by grabbing the wallet out of the junior officer's hand.

"Gary, what the hell do you think you're doing? You just screwed up any fingerprints we"- Mitchell stopped short as he watched his friend race to the open doors of the ambulance and the stretcher the EMTs were just about to load. He did not follow Walker as it occurred to him the experienced officer's abrupt departure indicated he knew the victim, so Mitchell let Walker alone and turned back to the uniform, berating him about not following the proper procedures for handling evidence.

When he arrived at the ambulance, Walker put a hand on the shoulder of the EMT that was at the head of the stretcher, asking him to wait. "Only a moment, sir, we really need to get him to the hospital. It's hard to tell exactly how much blood he's losing."

"I won't be long. I just want to see him for a moment." He leaned forward towards the body of the man lying there, peering intently at the grimy and bruised but placid face behind the oxygen mask, letting out a deep sigh of despair as he recognized Don Eppes. He thanked the EMT and watched as they loaded Don inside, stepping back when the ambulance doors slammed shut and less than a minute later, his eyes followed the vehicle as it drove off carrying a man he deeply respected on the job and admittedly liked on a personal basis.

"Friend of yours?" Mitchell asked when Walker returned moments later.

"Yeah," he mumbled. Walker thought furiously about what had happened to Eppes and the further pain that would be inflicted if it became common knowledge. Deftly keeping Don's wallet in hand, he walked back to his car and climbed inside, pulled out his cell and punched out the number of a close friend in the Special Rape Section of the LAPD.

"What can I do you for, Gary?" came a jovial greeting over the line.

"Riley," he replied, immediately down to business, "I'm down at the scene of a rape, wanted to bring you in on it."

Losing his previous mirth, Detective Bradshaw asked his colleague, "You the man in charge?"

"No."

The detective reminded his friend, "You know I only deal with high-profile or unique sex crimes. If this one fit either of those two definitions, the officer in charge would've called me by now."

"He doesn't know the vic's a fed- I do."

Cautiously, Bradshaw extended the question, "And you haven't alerted him or the Bureau to this fact because…?"

Walker adjusted his position in his seat, watching as crime scene tape was pulled across the entrance to the side alleyway. "Because I want to keep the identity of this guy tightly contained."

"Guy? This was a male-on-male rape?"

"_Males _on male." Walker paused a moment to let Bradshaw get a picture of that formed in his mind. "Once the Bureau's in on the situation every suit within a three-state radius will know his business and I'd like to avoid that at all cost."

"Gary," he growled through the phone, "you're not asking me to pretend this ain't a federal crime, are you? Cause I don't think my superiors or theirs would be too happy if I conveniently ignored the guy carries a federal badge."

"No, I'm going to follow procedure and alert his immediate superior. But I know him, too, worked with him in the past. I think he'll agree to let your team work the case until there's somebody in custody and ready to go to trial. I just want to give the victim some time to heal in privacy without the scrutiny of his peers- or the press. Bet they'd have a field day with this."

"Now wait a minute. It now sounds like you want us to put in all the legwork on this case but hand over the collar to the Feds when we make an arrest?"

"I guess I am."

"Walker, you're nuts! Why the hell would I work my ass off for some fed I don't even know so he can have a little comfy privacy while he's working out the kinks in his nether regions?"

"I don't know," Walker said vehemently, "maybe because your kid's sitting in a classroom at Harvard instead of a jail cell like the rest of his buddies- you remember, the ones we caught in that sting operation two years ago. If I recall correctly, I worked _my_ ass off convincing the prosecutor to let him turn witness against his friends and give him a few months probation instead of the long-term sentence he deserved."

Bradshaw caved, sighing loudly. "He's at Yale, not Harvard."

"Six of one, half dozen of another."

"Alright, but I'll only do it if both of our supervisors agree."

"Thanks, Riley."

"And as long as it wasn't a hit. I don't deal with retaliatory actions on law enforcement officials."

"Fine, but I highly doubt it. This kind of thing doesn't tend to be anyone's style; sends the wrong message about the guy who perpetrated it."

"Now that that's settled, give me a location. But I won't officially take over the case until I hear from my supervisor."

Walker gave Bradshaw the desired information. "I'm going to call the vic's supervisor as soon as I hang up with you, so you should be getting that approval real soon. When I'm done talking to him, then…" Walker grimaced.

"Then?"

"Then I'm going to notify the family."

"Don't relish that thought, do you?"

Walker thought about Don's brother, Charlie, who he had turned him off the first time he had met him but who he had grown to respect and admittedly like almost as much as Don. He did hate to be the one to break the news, but he was sure it would be worse coming from a stranger.

"Yeah, but it has to be done."

"By the way, you never told me the name of the victim."

"Special Agent Don Eppes."

"He must be a good friend of yours with all the trouble you're going through to help him."

"No, we're really not more than working friends. He's just a good person who deserves better, that's all."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Changed rating to M. I am sorry if I offended anyone.

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Charlie Eppes slung the strap of his laptop carrying case over his shoulder, grabbed a stack of files under his arm, and hefted two bags of garbage in his free hand, maneuvering out of his home and to the trash cans waiting in the alley behind the garage. Once he'd deposited his load, he climbed into his car and headed to work, his mind preoccupied with the party he had given the night before. It had been a success to all present except himself and his father. Both of them had missed the third leg of their triangular family unit and his unexpected absence had kept any real satisfaction with the affair from appearing in their thoughts or attitudes.

Faith had kept Charlie from initially worrying about his brother. He knew Don would eventually come to the house, a statistical probability he reworked and recited to himself more and more as the evening had lengthened and tipped over into the morning hours, his attempts at reassuring himself exasperated because the only contact he could make with Don was a disembodied recording on his voicemail. While others about them celebrated, Alan followed his youngest son's lead and slipped out at intermittent periods to call Don, too, his worry not alleviated by Charlie's assurances that Don would appear at some point with a remorseful expression on his face and several words of apology for his lateness on the tip of his tongue.

Don had shown up with neither, for he had not shown up at all.

Sometime after two o'clock, Charlie had finally gotten a small breakthrough when his brother's phone had been answered. Eagerly, he had begged Don to come to their home, hurriedly apologizing for the threat he'd made in their earlier conversation and begging his older brother to forgive him, just come home. But to his surprise, Don had not answered him but simply hung up. To further aggravate Charlie's consternation, when he called back a second time he was sent back to voicemail. Assuming Don was more than a little upset for his having hung up on him earlier and was retaliating by doing the same, Charlie had given up at last, deciding to catch his brother during lunch break later that day and try to make amends.

His brother's mind had been in a dark neighborhood, indeed, and Charlie felt it might be best to give him time to find his way home on his own.

But not too much time.

When Charlie left for work in the morning, Alan watched with a little tinge of pride as his youngest son took care of the simple task of taking out the garbage. Once alone, he looked around and appraised the clean house that had been overflowing with paper plates, plastic cups, leftover food, confetti and streamers merely hours before. It had been less than three months since he had had a conversation with Charlie about keeping up the appearance and care of the house and obviously his son had taken his father's opinion seriously. Considerately, Charlie had only gotten two hours sleep before jumping out of bed and clearing the house of any remnants of the party, so thorough in his care that Alan was tempted to get out a white glove to check to see if he could find any trace of the previous night's festivities, just some minor thing to clean, so that he could shed himself of the slight feeling of uselessness that was afflicting him now, a layover awareness that his sons were growing in all aspects of their lives and at some point they might not need him any more.

Alan sat down in his recliner, took out his paper and a pencil, and wrote the first answer to the crossword puzzle on the last page.

Then he just stared, his thoughts straying to his sons once again.

Though he appreciated all that Charlie had done for him in preparing and carrying through with the previous night's affair, Alan had come to the conclusion that celebrating birthdays at his age was never a good thing. The older he became the more independent he saw his sons become and without someone else in his life, he really was beginning to wonder if there would ever be anyone who needed him again, whether alone his sons. He thought briefly about his business. Alan supposed it was a good thing that they had gotten the recent contract to oversee the building of a new mall in San Diego. Even though Stan would be the one working at the site, Alan would be too busy with his portion of the work to have the time for these reflective periods of self-pity. It was better for him when his mind was occupied, as it was just as keen in its older age as those of his two sons- with a dash of wisdom tempering his moods.

Don, he suddenly thought, where were you this time?

It had bothered him all evening that his eldest had not appeared. Unlike Charlie, he knew that there was a good chance that Don would not show up at all. Alan had spoken to him immediately after his last case had come to an end and had heard the despair rasping his voice. Those were the times Alan knew Don's cell would be shut off when they tried to contact him and his son would disappear to wherever he liked to escape. Only, this time, something had needled him all night about Don's absence and Alan could not place a finger on it. Thinking of it again, he put down the paper, looked at the time and decided Don should be into work already so it would be the perfect time to trap him into talking a few minutes, just long enough to remind his eldest that there were people that loved him and were there for him, whether he wanted them to be or not.

Alan had just gotten to the phone when he heard a knock on the front door.

He went forward and peered through the peephole, seeing a man of authoritative stature standing on his front porch. Alan recognized the man's stance, though the visitor's face escaped his recollections. Pulling open his door, he greeted the man. "May I help you?"

The man cleared his throat and averted his eyes briefly before addressing Alan directly. "Mr. Eppes, I don't know if you remember me, I'm"-

"Oh, yes I do. Walker, isn't it? Charlie has been working with your taskforce on gang activity in L.A." He opened the outer door and waved Walker in. "Charlie's not here at the moment. I suppose you tried his cell and found it was unreachable? He tends to forget to charge it, you know."

Alan walked into the living room, offering his guest a seat and a cup of coffee. Walker accepted a seat on the couch but declined the drink. "Mr. Eppes, would you sit and talk to me a moment?"

The words were barely out of the lieutenant's mouth when Alan realized what he recognized about the way Walker had been standing and was now sitting. Both were formal demeanors, emulating the professional mode he had seen Don and his team members shift into when suddenly on a case or interviewing a victim. Slowly, he lowered himself into the recliner, anxiously anticipating the next words he would hear.

"Mr. Eppes, I'm afraid I have some bad news..."

"Where is he?" Alan whispered hoarsely.

Walker was not surprised that Don's father was aware of what was coming next and wanted him to get directly to the point. He had often had to carry news of death or harm to the family members of law enforcement officials and he had learned a long time before two important things: that the people at the receiving end of the bad news always knew- they had a sixth sense about whatever he was about to say- and that circumventing the severity of the problem was the worst transgression he could commit. So he simply replied, "At UCI Medical Center. He's alive, but not in good physical shape; probably not emotionally, either."

The last part of Walker's statement struck Alan as odd in regards his son. "Emotionally? Did he get hurt trying to save someone and fail? No, wait a minute- this couldn't have been work related, could it? I mean his team members were at my house last night, up until about two this morning."

"I'm afraid Don was a victim of a random crime- at least, I don't think it was some kind of retaliation for his work as an agent. It's not the type of act we would usually associate with organized crime or others trying to convey a message of masculine revenge."

Confusion and worry wrinkled Alan's face. "Exactly what happened to Don?" he demanded to know.

Walker took in a lungful of air, expelled most of it as he said, "No easy way to say this. I'm afraid Don was raped."

Alan sank into his seat, stunned. "Raped?" He couldn't think clearly, sure he had misunderstood what Walker said. "That's not possible."

"I'm sorry, sir, but it is."

Walker said nothing further while he waited for the thick air of disbelief that hung between him and the other man to slowly dissipate, allowing the truth of the words he had spoken to work their way into Alan's understanding and acceptance.

Finally, Alan sat forward, wringing his hands nervously. "Do you mean by a...woman? Or by..." He swallowed thickly, "a...a man?"

"We suspect four men."

"Oh, lord," Alan moaned, tremors raising the hair on his arms. "Oh, lord, lord, my poor boy." He abruptly stood up, right hand working his lower face vigorously with pain and anguish for his child, left one gripping the hem of his shirt, nails tearing into it, the scenario having never been one he would have imagined facing since neither of his children were born daughters. Walker graciously allowed him a temporary solitariness to mourn, refusing to interject any more information until requested. Alan finally went to the front bay window of his home, trying to compose himself. "I need to see him," he said in a low, trembling voice, "but I don't know if he'll want to see me."

Walker stood and approached Alan, dropping a hand heavily on his shoulder to reinforce his words. "He might not, sir, but he needs someone and I thought it best if it was you."

Barely nodding, Alan fidgeted unsurely with the cell phone hanging from his belt. "I think I should call Charlie. He'll want to know." Still, he made no move to call.

He doesn't know which son will be hurt worse, Walker thought, the one who probably wants no one to know what happened to him or the one who'll feel betrayed because he wasn't notified. Deciding to solve the dilemma for the elder gentleman and alleviate him from the solid weight of its burden, Walker firmly stated, "Sir, my experience is that the decision as to who should be informed about a rape is a right that is reserved solely for the victim-nobody else."

Alan dropped his hand to his side and turned towards the man, whispering, "Thank you for your kindness. It would probably be better if I respect Don's privacy," grateful Walker had eased the difficulty of choosing this course of action.

"If you like, I could drive you to him now."

"Yes," Alan replied with anguished eyes, "That will be fine. I'm not sure if it's a wise idea for me to get behind the wheel of a car just yet."

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Walker dropped Alan off at the entrance to the emergency room after receiving assurances from the other man that he would rather see to Don's well-being by himself. After watching Walker drive away, Alan entered the hospital, gave them his and Don's names, and then was set aside to wait.

Alan thought the hour ride to the hospital was the longest trip he had ever taken in his life, even more so than the one that he took with his wife for the last time, their destination then the same as his now, her return home impossible. He had been expecting to go that time, though, been preparing for its eventuality, but this…

Many times Alan had practiced controlling his emotions at the possibility that he would one day be hearing Don had been killed in a shootout, doing so in the hopes that if it actually occurred he might not lose his mind; or had reflected on the tone of voice he should use in chiding his son when visiting him during a recuperation for having broken another limb when bringing a particularly large suspect down, or had mentally listed the changes that would be necessary in his life if he were notified that Don was paralyzed from a knife wound that had struck him in just the right spot along his vertebrae- an event that had almost occurred while his son lived in Albuquerque, another attack on Don that Alan had hidden from Charlie. Unlike now, it had been something that he hadn't thought twice about doing because at the time the distance between his boys had been more easily measured in years than in miles, his thinking being that it would deeply hurt Charlie to tell him Don was in need when Alan knew his eldest son would refuse any comfort from his brother if he offered it, something that was thankfully no longer true.

At least, in regards the other injuries Don had sustained since his mother died.

But this- this was a unique situation for which he doubted Don would willingly accept any amount of assistance from his brother. As a man approached him with a clipboard under his arm, Alan wondered if his eldest son would be willing to accept it from him- or be able to.

"Mr. Eppes, I'm Doctor Patel."

Alan shook the man's proffered hand, taking in his appearance- tall, almost his height, dark complexion and short black hair, obviously Indian, maybe born in that country, the lilting quality of his speech indicating so.

"If you would come with me, please, Mr. Eppes." The doctor turned down a hallway to his right, beckoning Alan with his hand. Pacing themselves at a steady stride, the two men went through several doors and around several corners, their walk too brisk for Alan to comfortably ask questions, refusing to admit that the delay was a welcome one because it kept the worst news of Don's condition at bay, both of them stopping at a counter and Alan finally unable to sustain his silence any longer.

"Please, how is my son doing?"

"One moment, please." Patel went around to the other side of the counter and briefly spoke to a nurse. Returning to Alan, he told him, "We have been running tests on your son ever since he entered the ER earlier this morning. He has not regained consciousness as of yet and has sustained a head injury, so we are giving him an MRI. When we have all of the test results I'll be able to give you a clearer picture but so far, his injuries do not appear to be life-threatening."

"Thank God."

"Yes, thank God indeed. Would you like to join your son while he takes his exam?"

Alan nodded. Patel said a few more words to the nurse and then they headed down another hallway, entered a viewing room, Alan able to see Don lying wrapped in what appeared to be blankets and about to enter the MRI machine, his immobile body slowly sliding in.

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_Don languidly sat on the bench, his arm thrown over the back of the seat, looking ahead of him at the long, flower-filled field dotted with intermittent patches of sunlight that glared brilliantly against the bright day and burning his eyes when he stared at any of them directly. _

_Nobody else was there, he was alone._

_Miles ahead, he caught a glimpse of a horizon that stretched across his vision as a narrow band of molten gold, encircling his sanctuary as a strong barrier against intruders and bursting with effervescent undulations that made the whole scene shimmer._

_Waves of comfort flowed across to him. _

_Lifting his head and closing his eyes, he let the warmth coming from on high land just above his skin and start a slow search of his body, the perception of a breeze interrupting every now and then- tickling at his nerves and sending shivers down his spine. _

_Peace, here there was peace._

_Quietude sank into the ground and blossomed, stretching creepers along the field, along the bench, reaching for Don and crawling along him from his feet upwards towards his mind, petals of safety attempting to enfold him, protect him from the world that lay just beyond that golden horizon._

_Trying to, but failing._

_A harsh banging at the periphery of his hearing sliced away at the cocoon of silence and solitude protecting Don, pushing him to his feet. He trembled, uncultivated fear growing wild all about him, pressing at his legs and arms and body, blackened vines encircling him around his waist and limbs, pulling him downwards, his feet sinking into muddied dirt and down, down, he went, his cries muffled as he was entirely embedded in the earth, pitch dark all around him…cold, so cold and naked._

_He felt them. _

_Couldn't see them…_

_But he felt them._

_Touching his skin, his body, his soul- breath lingering over his lips and eyes and ears, claws digging in deep, tearing him apart, mocking laughter banging into his head over and over again while he struggled to move, couldn't do it, bound down and they were pressing against him, into him, searing pain overwhelming him, terror and fear and hopelessness because he had no control-_

_No control!_

_My body-_

_NO! STOP! _

_I don't, I don't-_

_I don't want you to touch me, to do those things to me, to do that to me- I don't like it, I'm not enjoying it, never fantasized about it, never wanted to do it, never wanted it done to me- _

_Don't want you to…_

_Stop._

_My body, stop. _

_Let go!_

_don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me!_

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"Get him out of there!" yelled a nurse, barely heard above the loud wail coming from the man to whom she referred.

Alan pushed his way into the room, trying to reach his screaming son but was unable to get past the assemblage of medical personnel trying to get him under control.

Without warning, Dr. Patel was next to him. "Move aside, Mr. Eppes!" Alan instinctively did as he was told, stepping back from the melee. Several male attendants and nurses were grappling with Don, trying to get a firm hold on his flailing limbs and thrashing body, press it flat to the bench protruding from the main portion of the machine from which they had extracted him.

"Pull those wraps around him!"

"I can't get his arm- crap!"

"Here, hold this! Dammit- you need to keep it down!"

"I've got his legs! Hand me the…"

"Turn him over, just turn him over!"

"Alright, already!"

Alan stood rigidly against the wall, using all of his willpower to keep from heaving everyone from the room and taking his son up in his arms. He watched as a nurse threw himself over Don's legs, grabbed a strap from the hands of another man and snapped it across his patient's body, the binding drawing a loud litany of profanity from his son's mouth in protest, the harsh words spasmodically interrupted with screeching cries of fear and terror that tore at Alan's heart, Don's emotional torment painfully evident and almost unbearable for his father to hear.

Almost.

He would endure it, he would not leave his son, and so Alan proceeded forward, wanting to let Don know that he was safe and that his father was there with him. Only, while Alan watched, Don twisted out from under another attendant, his hospital gown flapping open and revealing two gashes on the upper thigh of his left leg, both marks red, puffy, jagged curves that together formed the outline of a disconnected circle. Alan stopped, unable to move further, staggered by the sight, recognizing the lacerations were not the result of any instrument but the kind of damage that would be done by the teeth of a human animal, the unexpectedness of the injury petrifying Alan with the realization that he had no idea what he would be able to do in order to help his son- either physically, emotionally, or mentally.

So Alan stood rooted to his spot, continuing to watch as Dr. Patel readied a syringe while two more personnel rewrapped Don in the blankets he had shed when first awakening. They managed to maneuver his arms into a desired position before more straps were set into place, Don's body arching nearly in half in resistance just before he was laid on his side, three pairs of arms tightened around him as Patel injected him. Don's bodied shook uncontrollably when the needle pricked him, the people around him wanting to soothe with a touch but wisely choosing to wait for the sedative to work instead, knowing what had occurred to him and assuming that the feel of hands massaging his body was not what their patient wanted.

They were correct.

When Don's body had settled into a limp pile on the MRI bench, he was turned on his back, checked thoroughly to be certain he was completely incapacitated, and then readied to finish the examination. Dr. Patel left him, going to Alan and leading the elder man out of the room.

"I apologize, Mr. Eppes. We were afraid he might awaken during the procedure, that is why we wrapped him to begin with- otherwise, he might have gotten seriously hurt. I suppose the loudness of the machine frightened him into consciousness, and finding himself within the confines of the MRI tunnel...well, after the trauma he has gone through, it's not surprising he panicked."

Alan sagged into a chair, his eyes watching as Don was once again slipped into the MRI machine, nobody leaving the room, everyone attentive. "I understand."

Dr. Patel sat down next to him, patted him gently on the knee. "He'll get better. If there is no trauma to his brain, the rest of his injuries should heal nicely. It will take time and a lot of work, but still..."

"Does that include his internal ones?" Alan asked quietly.

"So far, we have seen no major internal damage. Some contusions, yes"-

"I'm not talking about his physical state," Alan interrupted ominously, "I'm talking about those things inside him that we can't see- his mind, and soul, his personality- everything inside him that makes my son who he is."

"Mr. Eppes, the things you've just listed- I'm afraid they may not heal nicely. I'm sorry to say, they may never heal at all. Please excuse me."

A single tear made its way down Alan's face. No, he thought, I do not know how to help you Donny.

Maybe nobody does.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: As requested, warning that some physical results of rape will be described in this chapter.

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Charlie made his way through the bullpen carrying a cardboard box full of fresh lattes and sandwiches, swerving around the busied activities of numerous bodies that were in aggravated states of perpetual motion. He quickly walked towards Don's desk and dropped the box on top, guarding it from curious passersby as he looked around for Don and his team members, hoping they weren't out in the field.

After working on a lecture that he would present the following week, Charlie had spent the better part of the morning trying to figure out the best way to approach Don, put him in a position so that he would have to talk to him. If he showed up at the Bureau and asked Don out to lunch, the probabilities were high that his brother would come up with an excuse for not going. By the time noontime had come around, Charlie had decided the approach that guaranteed the most success would be to show up with enough food to feed Don's team, supposing that if his brother was resistant to taking a break, well, the rest of his colleagues wouldn't be; hopefully, mob mentality would win out and as a group they would overcome Don's objections, enabling Charlie to maneuver Don into a corner some time during their impromptu lunch so he could apologize and then, with Don's participation or not, privately discuss all that had occurred the previous day- and, if Charlie dared to venture, the case that had been bothering Don.

A most reasonable plan, Charlie told himself as he continued to search for his brother.

It was not long before Megan, David, and Colby appeared, circling the welcomed food and interruption in their busy schedule, sitting down in chairs and unwrapping sandwiches, not hesitating to satisfy long-empty stomachs. Then Charlie inquired as to the whereabouts of his brother and everybody stopped eating, fidgeting when he leaned forward and stared at each of them, one by one, silently demanding the information.

Megan finally spoke, "He's doing some individual work at Merrick's request."

"Really?" Charlie replied, "Don didn't mention anything about it when I talked to him yesterday."

"He received the assignment early this morning."

Colby and David exchanged furtive glances that weren't lost on Charlie.

"Okay, guys," the professor asked, apprehension stiffening his joints, "what's really going on?"

Megan tossed away the remains of her lunch and began playing with her coffee lid. "Don never did make it to your dad's party."

"I kinda noticed that myself," Charlie said wryly. "That's why I showed up here with the goodies- you know, a peace offering of sorts. It's also why I didn't call Don and notify him I was coming. I was afraid he wouldn't want to see me and would take off before I got here."

Megan gave him a tiny smile, agreeing. "He probably would have, too, only he was sent away before he could make that decision."

Charlie frowned. "What do you mean by _sent away_? He didn't do anything rash last night, did he? I mean, he's not in trouble on his job?" If his little tantrum had affected Don so much that he had exploded at work or violated some Bureau rule, Charlie knew he would never be able to live with himself.

David joined the conversation, pulling his chair up close to Charlie and lowering his head after a quick look around. "No, Charlie. But I have to admit that was our first thought when he didn't come in this morning."

Colby added, "He's been in some mood lately, I can tell you that. Maybe that's why he agreed to..." Indecisive about how much he should reveal, Colby turned to the more experienced agents, leaving it to them to further the conversation.

Megan quickly took up the trail end of his sentence, not wanting to distress Charlie any further than he already was- his worried condition apparent by his petrified posture and the steadily increasing rhythm of his breathing. "Washington, Charlie. We were called into Merrick's office this morning and he told us Don was sent to Washington to represent L.A.'s JRIC and give a yearly report on how effective their work has been since it was formed."

The Joint Regional Intelligence Center.

Charlie remembered it was a collaborative public entity recently established in the Los Angeles area, its members taken from different government agencies to investigate possible terrorist activity- agencies such as the LAPD, U.S. Attorney's Office, Sheriff's Department, Homeland Security and, of course, the F.B.I. Don had been offered a post when it was first forming, but he had told Charlie that he liked the variety of investigations he was afforded in his current position and had turned them down.

So, why was he in Washington as its representative?

"There is no sensible answer to that," Megan said.

Startled, he asked weakly, "Did I ask that out loud?"

"No," David reassured him, "it was just written all over your face."

"Oh." Charlie watched the team members silently for a few minutes. They seemed to want to tell him something further but were debating if they should- or more importantly, could.

"You're saying it's just a routine assignment to Washington to give a report or some other bureaucratic crap like that," he said thoughtfully, "yet you're acting as if it's something more...I don't know, secretive?"

No one responded.

"You know," Charlie informed them, unwilling to stop his probing until he obtained all the available data, "I could just use my NSA clearance and look into this myself."

This time, both Colby and David turned to Megan, leaving the senior agent to determine what further explanations they should offer.

Charlie could see Megan searching his face, trying to determine if his threat about the NSA was serious.

Unable to obtain a good reading on the young genius, Megan decided it best to reveal all. Charlie was a consultant after all, and during his continued work at their office he was bound to hear the same rumors as they had. "We've been telling you what we were directed to say," she confessed to him, "Truth is, when Merrick first told us this story, we thought the "bureaucratic crap" nothing more than legend."

"A cover story?"

"Yes."

"Any reasons for that speculation?"

David answered, "Well, like you, we wondered why they would choose Don to make a presentation when there are people at JRIC that have more knowledge of their operations than him."

"And..."

Megan continued, "Right after we saw Merrick, we began hearing rumors around the office that some kind of clandestine operation is going down and Don is on the team that is instigating it. Why? We don't know. But we do have some confirmation that the office gossip might be true. About half an hour ago, I finally cornered Merrick about what everyone was saying and I can infer from our little discussion that Don volunteered for a special assignment involving the JRIC _and_ the office of Homeland in D.C. He also stated flat-out that Don will be "incommunicado" for the next several weeks."

"Which," Colby pointed out, "still doesn't give us much to go on- Merrick's statements imply a lot, but essentially tell us nothing."

"Still, it doesn't take a math genius to put two and two together," David said flippantly.

Abruptly standing, Charlie crossed his arms. "I suppose Don couldn't tell us about any of this before he left?"

"No," David stated flatly, "I would suppose he couldn't."

Charlie sighed loudly, angry. "It's so like him to just disappear like this. I bet he volunteered so he could avoid talking to me." He told David and Colby how he had attempted to trick Don into coming over to his house the previous night so they could help him with his moodiness and, when Don hadn't shown, his failure to reach him by phone.

Megan leaned against a desk and faced Charlie, apologizing. "I'm sorry I called you yesterday- whatever was eating at Don, it would probably have been better if I just let him work it out on his own; he's used to doing that anyway. Now there's this _thing _between the both of you and there's no way to resolve it- at least, not for a while."

"No, no," Charlie waved away her apology, "It's not your fault. It was an improbable set of circumstances that merged last night to work against us- the case, my discussion with you, what I said to Don, the offer for this assignment- but Don's taking it was not so improbable, not if he's been feeling depressed and hasn't been able to shake that feeling."

Charlie stated with conviction, "Whenever Don's emotions turn on him and he finds them beyond his control, his reaction has always been the same-

-_he tends to hide away._"

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Stale coffee.

Alan wondered why hospitals always tasted like stale coffee.

It didn't matter how long it had been since the last time he'd had a cup, the bitterness remained on his tongue, its sticky residue clogging his throat, accompanying him for hours, days, its harsh fumes drifting upwards through his sinuses and resting within the sensors in his nose, the brusque heat of the coagulated fluid somehow managing to seep down and outward throughout his body till it inundated every pore: stale, pungent, caustic, sharp, offensive...foul helplessness in a strong liquid form.

It was a drink he had consumed for too many years.

_First with Margaret, when cancer ate away at her body and I had stand at her side, unable to do a thing to prevent her from physically wasting away; now with Donny, I have no idea how I can prevent the aftereffects of this crime from consuming his soul - God help me, I don't think I can survive losing him, too._

The older man settled back in his seat, closed off from the night by the curtains hanging over the hospital room windows, a fabric barrier to the thoughtless world beyond, watching his son, fast asleep...

The air in the doctor's office had been stagnant and stale when Alan entered it earlier that afternoon, as if death had recently visited and left its impersonal essence behind. He'd sat waiting for over an hour till Dr. Patel had entered the room, dust clouds swirling at the bottom of the door when he quietly shut it, the silence afterwards reminiscent of a tomb.

After an interminable amount of time, the doctor began.

"My apologies for your long wait, Mr. Eppes. We have been assisting the LAPD in gathering evidence from your son's body- for future prosecution, of that I am hopeful. Now, Don is being settled into a room and will assuredly be longing for you when he wakes, so let us allot no further time to legal concerns; please, let me talk briefly of your son's injuries."

Alan stiffened, bracing himself, weaving in and out of his ability to concentrate on the words the doctor was stoically saying.

"...MRI appears clean, no brain injury...lacerations and abrasions all over his body...one inside his left cheek, appears he bit himself...abrasion at the upper back of his throat... contusions on his limbs and abdominal region...two cracked ribs, aggravated further, I'm afraid, during the incident in the...deep scraping on his knees, toes, shoulders, parts of his face..."

Alan sipped his coffee, the pungent aroma spreading into the air and washing away the smell of mustiness from his nose.

"...as the human mouth contains a concentrated amount of bacteria and these are easily passed when the skin is punctured through a bite...there is a risk of damage to the nerves, tendons, and even the joints if infection results, so this is the area of my greatest concern, especially considering the number of bite wounds he has. See here..."

Pictures, Alan thought dismally, like the ones Donny has brought home when investigating a crime scene.

So impersonal when the body shown was never seen at a time when every fiber of its being was animated with thoughts and desires and the machinations of biology.

So harshly heartbreaking when one knew the mind and soul that lay hidden behind the bits and pieces of the person being showcased with such an indifferent attitude towards who they once were.

"...clustered on the inner and outer thighs of each leg, upper chest, right shoulder, lower back... According to his medical records, he had a tetanus shot about six months ago...so, it is not necessary to give him one now. We'll combat infection by keeping him on a steady flow of antibiotics through an I.V., check the wounds themselves often for signs that infection is developing...we've already taken x-rays and so far, we've seen no indication..."

Alan slugged down the remnants of his coffee then handed the paper cup over to the doctor, who continued to talk as he refilled the small container from a pot squatting in the corner of the room. When Alan was returned his cup, he took a tentative drink, the caustic substance searing a pathway into his stomach with much less pain than the next words he heard.

"...clearly cigarette burns...several grouped near his right nipple, but most centered in his lower region, starting just above the pelvic region down a clear, consistent path towards the base of his..."

Alan forced his eyes to take in the pictures, an uncontrollable shiver working its way along his spine, freezing him. In a desperate attempt for warmth, he swallowed half the coffee in his cup, the sharp jolt of the caffeine providing a temporary and false heat.

"...fissures are not uncommon with anal sex, especially when forced. I performed a thorough exam...surgery does not seem required at this time. With an increase of fiber intake, sitz baths, topical ointment... medication if necessary...make it easier for him to pass a stool and in four, maybe six weeks they should heal. However, if these non-intrusive methods are ineffective, we may have to reconsider surgery..."

The cup in Alan's hand shook and droplets of coffee spilled onto his white dress shirt, splotching it. As an unwarranted, guilty despair slowly began forming in his heart, he sucked in another mouthful, convinced the offensive taste was justly-deserved.

_Why hadn't he gone looking for Don when he didn't show for his party?_

"...couldn't be sure until we cleaned it thoroughly, too dirty to make it out...lots of the blood we found on your son came from...probably used a piece of broken glass from the incisive appearance of the edges...spelled out the word _bitch _in letters slightly less than three inches in height, covering the bottom-most portion of his lower back, right above his posterior...deep...will have to let it heal, laser surgery should help...till then..."

Permanent, Alan thought.

More than anything else, the word they had carved into Don's back was an affirmation that the damage to his son would never fade away. One swig and Alan finished his coffee, its last dregs settling in his stomach and leaving a foul taste in his mouth, contaminating him.

"...we couldn't get his consent, but we gave him a rapid HIV test...came back negative...coincides with his last physical, which was quite recent and indicates he had been free of any sexually transmitted diseases...don't know the extent of his exposure...has been within seventy-two hours since the assault, we are starting him on a full course of anti-retrovirals to help prevent the transmission of HIV...very important to take for the entire twenty-eight days that is required...full coursework of blood tests have been performed and more will have to be taken at six weeks, three months...and six months to test for blood count...renal and liver function...antibiotics will help keep him from acquiring other types of..."

Alan nodded numbly.

"We had thought to refer your son to a rape counselor, but I talked to his employer and he insisted they have one on staff who is more familiar with the mentality of those working for their agency. I was informed that he or she should be contacting your son sometime today or later tonight. Now, if there are no further questions, I do believe it would be best for you to sit with your son- the sedative we gave him was not strong enough to put him to sleep through the night. If he awakens in the same mental state as earlier..."

Then Alan had been led to Don's room, whereupon he took up his current watch.


	6. Chapter 6

A knock sounded at the door and Alan looked towards the intrusive sound. An official-looking man and properly-dressed woman were standing loosely in the doorway and quietly asked if he had a few minutes to talk, then waited patiently outside while Alan smoothed Don's hair and adjusted his blankets, the older man's eyes unable to focus on the bandaging that signaled each injury that had been afflicted to his son, worried that Don did not respond to his touch.

Alan left Don alone, headed down the hall with his visitors and notified the nurses' station that he would be nearby if needed, walked to a small, private room the hospital staff used for consultations and were graciously allowing them to borrow, understanding the need for privacy, turning to the man and woman expectantly when they had gathered inside.

"Mr. Eppes, my name is Detective Riley Bradshaw. I'm with the LAPD's Special Rape Section. This is Dr. Michelle Wyndham- she's a psychiatrist who works for the F.B.I. and has been assigned to assess Don's condition."

Alan took the other man's hand, eyeing Bradshaw, who was taller than him and thick, reminding Alan briefly of John Wayne, the officer's shoulders squared with authority and determination but his deep blue eyes emanating compassion. Then Dr. Wyndham's, whose entire demeanor was gentleness and patience when she clasped his hand softly within both of hers, holding on longer than usual so as to express concern and care, that they would be together through it all. When directed to do so, Alan wearily sank into a seat across from them as they sat themselves, the elder Eppes experientially knowing they could be trusted.

Speaking to Bradshaw, he said, "Lieutenant Walker told me you had taken Don's case and that you would work it..._quietly_."

"Yes," the detective replied, "but that will only be possible until viable suspects are in hand. At that point, the agreement between my supervisor and your son's is for the Feds to step in and prosecute, and I'm afraid the complications of a federal trial will probably lead to the circumstances of your son's assault becoming known. Not necessarily to friends and family, but most likely to his colleagues- if not in full detail, at least the basic fact that it occurred."

"I thought there were laws that protected the identities of rape victims?" Alan asked thickly.

"There are," Dr. Wyndham explained, "but if your sons' rapists are apprehended and convicted, there is nothing to stop them from bragging about their crime in prison to earn some respect. I'm sorry, Mr. Eppes, but once that happens it is likely that the news will leak up from the guards and be passed around law enforcement circles."

"I don't know if Don will be able to handle others finding out about this," Alan said, throat dry, tired, "Or how well his brother will take it when he's finally told."

"You're talking about Charlie?" Dr. Wyndham asked, "The one who helps with Don's cases?"

"Yes."

"He is well-known in our agency. As for how he will feel upon hearing the news...really, it is impossible to say how he, or Don, or anybody close to him will respond once they know what has happened- I would suspect you don't even know how to feel yourself."

"No," Alan admitted, "I'm running the gambit from hysteria to numb."

"Your feelings are not unusual, Mr. Eppes, and I am going to give you the same advice that I will give Don: please continue to express them when you need to- _without apology._ There is no right or wrong way to behave, right or wrong way to feel after such a tragedy has occurred. The circumstances and people involved in this particular type of crime are never alike."

Wyndham leaned forward, her gaze piercing as she emphasized, "Rape is a singular word, Mr. Eppes, but it has multiple definitions and countless emotional stratums. No case is the same as the next, as each victim is effectively unique and so are their reactions to the crime. Only time will tell how well a victim will progress towards healing"-

-"or how successful the criminal investigation into it will be," Bradshaw added.

Alan nodded.

Bradshaw sat back and crossed a leg over his knee, trying to establish a more-relaxed atmosphere after he and the psychiatrist had spoken so passionately, wanting Alan to feel more at ease about talking to them. "Speaking of which, my men and I are going to work this investigation like you said- _quietly_. In order to do this, one of the first things our supervisors decided was to keep the number of people involved to a minimum. Right now, those people include me, my two team members, Dr. Wyndham, Merrick, my immediate supervisor, and Lieutenant Walker. I don't think you could ask for a smaller inner circle. In addition, I've already talked to several workers at the bar where your son was last night and it doesn't appear that anyone he knows was with him in the hours before the assault. So, I will limit my interviews of family and close friends to you- _for now_. As for a reason explaining his absence from his job, Merrick has taken care of that- apparently, he let it leak to his secretary that Don is on some dangerous undercover assignment. You know how offices like to gossip- he figured the story would be more believable if everyone thought they weren't supposed to know about it. All these precautions should help keep the occurrence under wraps for a while."

"Thank you," Alan said graciously, "but, um, what about the witness?"

Bradshaw adjusted his jaw. "I don't think you have to worry about him saying anything. Unfortunately, he can't even talk to us at this time- poor boy's mother already had him in to see a psychologist early today and refuses to let us interview him, which is perfectly understandable."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Alan said truthfully, pitying the young man who had helped his son.

Dr.Wyndham whispered a few words to Bradshaw and then turned to Alan. "If you don't mind, Mr. Eppes, I am going to peek in on Don- you and I will have much more to discuss later, but I think Detective Bradshaw needs your attention at this time." Then she slipped from the room as Bradshaw readied to interview Alan, the detective formally asking, "Mr. Eppes, may I ask you some questions at this time, or would it be better if I came back later?"

"No, I think it best we get this out of the way. When Don wakes up, I won't have time for your questions- only for him."

Bradshaw was touched by Alan's devotion.

"Well now," he coughed, "These are the basic facts I have gathered so far. Don _was _at a bar last night," Bradshaw took out a small notepad and flipped through it, "name of TECHNOS. Staff state they had never seen him there before and that he looked out of place- so different from their usual clientele that the bouncer easily stated that Don arrived sometime between nine and ten. Immediately, he entered a room that was an offshoot to the main gathering area- some unknown male greeted him there. Bartender was sure they did not know each other, as they exchanged names as way of introduction. They shared beers, each taking turns buying a round. Bartender uncapped the bottles on an opener attached to the bar. We think this is how Don was drugged...blood tests confirmed some trace elements of a common date-rape drug in his system upon his admittance to the emergency room; his male companion carried the open bottles when it was his turn to buy, which gave him opportunity to drop in the drug. At some time near midnight, the bartender held the back exit open for them. He states that Don appeared to be sick and the unknown male was helping him out the door."

"I'm afraid I can't add anything to that," Alan told Bradshaw, "And I don't think any of his other family or friends knew that he planned to go to a bar last night. We were all gathered together for a party at my house and were waiting all night for Don to come by- but he never showed. He didn't even call to tell us he had changed his mind about attending. Honestly, his brother and I spent half the night taking turns calling him." Sorrowfully, Alan muttered, "We never did speak to him."

"Uh, huh," Bradshaw jotted a few notes, "what about his co-workers? Would he have told them?"

"His team members were also at the party and knew we had been trying to contact Don. If he had told them where he was going, I imagine one of them would have mentioned it so I wouldn't have worried."

"Do you have any idea why he went to the bar instead of your house?"

"Don likes to handle his problems on his own..."

"He's been having problems? Is that why you were so worried about him?"

"Nothing serious," Alan said quickly, "he had just wrapped up a hard case and was feeling somewhat depressed about it."

"So you think he didn't feel up to socializing and that's why he skipped?"

"Not exactly," Alan tried to explain, "Don is extremely unselfish and his avoidance would have been more for his friends' and family's sake, not his own."

"How so?"

"If he thought that his presence would ruin the party- you know, if his bad mood would bring everybody else down- he would have stayed away so we could enjoy ourselves without him."

His head down, Bradshaw wrote a few more minutes before startling Alan by asking, "Is it a habit of Don's to strike up conversations with strange men in unfamiliar bars?"

Suspecting the double meaning to the question, Alan was suddenly alert, bolting forward in his seat. "What the hell do you mean by _that_?"

"Not what you think, Mr. Eppes," Bradshaw said soothingly, reprimanding himself for having misspoken, knowing from experience that the question should not have been asked so soon after the trauma. When he raised his eyes to Alan's and saw the disbelieving anger swirling inside, the detective confessed, "I'm sorry, I did mean what you think."

As Alan stood to leave, muscles tight and fists clenched, Bradshaw put a hand on the other's forearm to stop him, apologizing a second time, "It is not my intent to hurt Don- or you, either. But it is pertinent to my investigation to know if Don was simply downloading to a stranger to spare those close to him the burden of his problems- or if it was his intent to pick someone up. If it was the first one, then he was probably a chance target; if the second, than someone might have seen him at a previous establishment and targeted him long before the assault- which means we might be able to identify the perpetrators by sifting through clientele of the other places Don has been...has been, uh, hanging out at."

"Not that I would mind," Alan said, grinding his teeth, "but my son is not gay. And even if he were, it is highly doubtful he'd go looking for a sexual partner at some singles bar when he has plenty of options open to him at his workplace- whether he wanted a woman _or_ a man."

"Please, Mr. Eppes," Bradshaw stood and gently guided Alan back to his seat before returning to his own, "I know these are hard questions, and truthfully, they will probably get harder. It may seem callous to ask them, but I suspect Don will not want to answer these questions- at least, not for a day or two- and the only way I can get the information is through you. You seem like a strong man- wouldn't it be much better for you to go through this interview than Don? Especially considering his current condition- both physical and emotional?"

Alan leaned forward, his head held in his hands.

Patiently, Bradshaw waited.

Blame, Alan thought angrily, who else would bring up blame? Because that was essentially what Bradshaw was asking him- did Don bring this on himself by giving up too much of his personal life to a stranger, or by making sexual advances on someone he shouldn't have? Neither behavior was understandable to Alan because Don always kept his problems to himself, and because he'd never have thrown himself at someone he didn't know, especially a male.

Who else would feel the blunt trauma of blame?

Alan had already been struck by it; he had brought the subject to the foreground when he admonished himself for not searching for Don when his son had not arrived at their home when anticipated, a preposterous self-accusation for how would he have known where to look, especially since Don was not hiding in any place that Alan could have conceived to find him.

Still...

Alan knew his son.

He knew his son well.

He knew that blame would start a slow ascent within Don, caused by his son's own self-condemnation, that the disease of it would spread and thrive when those around him discovered the truth and they began to wonder what they themselves could have done to prevent the event, would grow to an imposing monstrosity that might double back again to settle on Don's chest, suffocating him when some bestial defense lawyer twisted his son's innocent actions of desiring platonic companionship into a shady condemnation that he had nonverbally expressed a request for planned, willful, consensual, rough sex.

_What more, my son, is in store for you?_

"Mr. Eppes?"

Alan could not talk.

"Mr. Eppes? If you can't answer any further questions, I can come back another time. I really _am _sorry for having upset you."

Alan lifted his face and sat upright, straight in his seat, responding to Bradshaw determinedly, "Ask me what you have to- only, keep away from Donny as long as you can."

"I'll leave the initial interview to Dr. Wyndham- she's an official representative of the Bureau, so anything she learns he can release for us to use in the investigation and for court. So, I can agree to let her handle things for now and stay away as long as I can-

-"only know that it won't be forever."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alan answered what questions he could, leaving the comfort of his seat and pacing the room when Bradshaw burrowed into Don's personal life and habits. When they finished, he felt drained. Wanting a chance to recompose himself before returning to his son, Alan escorted Bradshaw to the hospital exit, thanked him for his discretion and then watched the man walk off into the setting sun before tiredly flipping open his cell.

He had to call Charlie and offer an excuse, come up with some reason why he'd be out of town for a while, but he wasn't sure if he had a believable one. Fortunately, his youngest son plopped one into his lap.

"I'm sorry to be calling so late, Charlie."

"No problem. With this new project on your hands, I expected you'd be busy quite a few evenings."

Alan assumed Charlie was trying to be nonchalant, but his son was not very good at maintaining secrets, so he actually came across as edgy and nervous-sounding. It came to Alan that Charlie already knew the cover story Merrick had spread about Don's absence and was probably debating whether or not he should tell his father. Alan understood Charlie's predicament; under normal circumstances, Alan would be quite angry if Don just up and decided to take a case that left them no means to communicate with him.

Leave it to Charlie to protect his older brother from their father's wrath. Alan lightly smiled.

"Yes, Charlie, it's this new account. Sign one little document and all of a sudden they think they own you."

"Don't tell me," Charlie replied, "they want you to personally oversee the construction _on site_."

Why not? Alan thought. It's as good of an excuse as any. "Yes, as a matter of fact, they do. Look, I don't feel like driving, so I'm going to stay at a hotel tonight. I'll see you early tomorrow morning when I come to pick up some things- after that, I don't know, it's really hard to say when I'll be home again."

"You don't have a specific timeline?"

"No- not yet. That's one of the things they want me to develop. I could be gone a week or two, or even a couple months. Right now, everything's up in the air."

"You could drive home on the weekends- I mean, San Diego isn't that far away."

"That sounds good, Charlie, but I can't make any promises." Alan tried to sound jovial, "What, you don't want to take advantage of having the old man out of the house?" In his own attempt to protect Don, saying, "You and your brother could throw a few parties, have some girls over..."

"I don't think Amita would appreciate that," Charlie said dryly. He paused four heartbeats before adding, "Besides, Don went to Washington this morning- he's meeting with some bigwigs about preventing terrorist activity in L.A. County."

"Really?" Alan changed his voice, trying to portray exasperation and annoyance. "Well, he could have told us..."

"It was last minute," Charlie threw in. Alan knew his son was now trying to defend his brother's actions. "He'll be busy for the next few weeks and he didn't have time to tell anyone before leaving- just like you."

"So this call I'm making is a figment of your imagination?" Alan said gruffly.

"I mean, you're calling last minute about working in San Diego- it's not like you gave me any forewarning about it. It's the same with Don- he didn't call until about a...an hour or so ago, but that's still earlier than you."

Alan couldn't help raising an appreciative eyebrow at how well Charlie was lying. The elder man wondered how many other times Charlie had performed like this to cover for Don, then dismissed the thought from his mind. Charlie was over thirty years old and since he'd always worshipped his brother, the number of times he had covered for Don was probably infinite.

"All right, Charlie, you have me there. Did he leave a number where he could be reached? When he's out of town, I know he tends to keep his cell off."

"No, but he'll call later when he has one." It was clear that Charlie was gaining more confidence about the story he was telling Alan because he was easily expanding its details. "But I wouldn't expect to be hearing from him anytime soon- from what he described of his schedule, I'd be surprised if we heard from him in the next three weeks."

"I guess there's nothing I can do about it," Alan sighed. "Speaking of contact numbers- the site we're working at is in the middle of nowhere and there are no land-based lines in place. So, unlike your brother, _I_ will be keeping my cell phone on. Just leave a message if I don't get back to you right away."

They said their goodbyes, both Eppes sagging with relief that their lies had been believed, hoping the other would not become suspicious about what he had been told. Alan made a quick call to his partner Stan, explaining that Don had been hurt on the job and would be out of commission for a while, and so would he. Could he do the usual and cover for him with Charlie? Yeah, Don does tend to get shot a lot- oh, and of course, the contract was all his. When he had time, Alan would sign the papers necessary to relinquish his interest in the project, thanks again, appreciate it so much. When he was done, Alan made one last call, contacted his steady girlfriend Millie and gave her the same story he'd given Charlie, received understanding words in return. Finally, he clicked his phone shut and reentered the hospital.

Dr. Wyndham was reading Don's chart when Alan entered the room, an overhead light turned on at the foot of his bed.

Don continued to sleep.

Alan crossed to Don, speciously checking the gauze swatches wrapped around several parts of his head, then pressed two lips to his brow, careful to avoid the scratches haphazardly scarring his face, dark bruises smudging his chin and lining his cheekbones making his mouth and eyes seem sunken, the red scraping at the end of his nose ragged and painful to look at, lips torn and scabbed. Don's breathing was shallow, a nasal cannula inserted into his nostrils to aid his intake of oxygen.

It was the first time Alan took a thorough look at his son and he thought briefly of an unraveling mummy, with bandages wrapped completely around his upper right arm to cover the infectious bite marks and held together by tape that did not touch the skin, done so to avoid agitating the jagged edges of the wounds when they were to be cleaned and the dressings removed. So many bandages, vicariously placed wherever an injury had occurred, small patches of his son's body peeking out in between, the lower part of his arms almost fully exposed but fairing no better, their surface either mottled by contusions causing purple-bluish splotches of skin or by long, deep streaks of faded red, remnants of nails furrowing into flesh. Both hands were partially covered, but Alan could not recall the exact nature of the damage.

Timidly, Alan lifted the blanket, sucking in a lungful of air when he saw the restraints around Don's wrists, wanting to undo them so they would not frighten his son when he awoke, but did not do so when he saw the intravenous line poking out from the back of his right hand, fearful Don would pull it out if he awakened in an anxious state. Alan pulled up Don's thin hospital gown, a soft moan burying itself deep in his lungs, a pressing weight refusing to expel as he saw the bruising on Don's chest and upper abdomen, a wrap diagonally covering his right nipple- traveling around his left shoulder and back under his right arm, more coverings circling his thighs and pelvic region, protecting his lower back, dabs of clear topical ointment within bare patches of pubic hair in which he could see the crisp circumference of white circles with their hard, red centers, burned into solid scars. Passing the condom catheter and barely acknowledging the bed pad, Alan's eyes traveled to Don's knees and the red scrapes on each, large bruises all the way down both calves contributing to his nearly complete anatomical discoloration. Two more restraints were placed around his ankles. The last sight Alan caught was the tops of Don's feet, which had several strips of skin scoured away.

Alan lowered Don's gown and tenderly tucked the blankets back in place.

"They're pumping a lot of medication into him," Dr. Wyndham noted quietly, standing between Alan and the IV monitor, "he has so many injuries at risk of becoming infected..." She shook her head in dismay. "I'm afraid I'll have to notify Merrick he'll have to stay here until they're sure that none have developed."

"How long might that be? Donny doesn't like hospitals."

"I would think a week, depending on how well his wounds heal; maybe less time if there are no complications from infection."

"Will he be in much pain?" Alan asked, staying beside the head of the bed, weaving his hand through a few loose strands of Don's hair. "The doctor went into detail about his condition, but it was hard to take it all in at once."

"Don't apologize. The first few days, even weeks after any type of traumatic event can be hazy. Both I and the doctor will answer your questions as many times as they are asked. I've worked with Dr. Patel before- he's very kindhearted."

"Okay," Alan said, "then the pain?"

"Will be managed," Wyndham told him honestly, "there will be a combination of pains, ranging from general aches all over his body to sharper pain in the rectum from the forceful penetration..."

Alan winced and bit his lip to keep from letting loose a sob, but indicated she should continue with a short nod of his head.

"...and in the areas where he was bit. Dr. Patel had someone from the burn unit assess the cigarette burns- she determined they were each full thickness or third degree, so there will be no pain coming directly from the wound because the nerve endings underneath have been destroyed. However, the surrounding skin is enflamed and will cause him some considerable pain. Topical ointments and pain medication will help keep it all under control."

"How 'bout when he, uh, urinates? Will he be able to with those burns..."

"That ability shouldn't be affected, unless infection occurs. However, I must say again, the skin circling the burns is tender, which includes most of his groin and near the base of his shaft, so he may want to be careful and take it slow..."

Before Dr. Wyndham could proceed, she was interrupted by a slight stirring on the bed. Alan quickly leaned forward, positioning his face directly in front of Don's but at a distance that wouldn't startle him, wanting Don to see him immediately upon waking up, to know he was with someone who loved him and that he was safe. Slipping his hand into Don's, Alan began smoothing his son's hair and to offer solace.

"Donny...Donny, it's alright, you're with me."

Don slowly twisted back and forth on the bed, his movements weak and limited by the restraints binding him. Dr. Wyndham headed out to seek hospital personnel, give father and son a moment alone.

"Donny, it's your father. Can you hear me?"

Two eyelids lifted a fraction; a mouth mumbled unintelligible words; thin lines of sweat trailed from under hair down around earlobes; a tongue poked out, licking swollen lips before withdrawing again. Eyelids down, scrunched together, suddenly opening with rapid blinks, pupils darting around the room, limbs straining.

"Donny," Alan whispered, giving a brief squeeze of his hand, "look at me- it's Dad."

Settled.

Don's eyes found and settled on his father's.

Alan captured their attention and held Don's gaze steady with his own, watching the transformation of Don's emotions as displayed in his eyes. Alan observed fear in them, bursting out in shiny sparks before dissipating to black calm, then they shown careful judgment as they studied him for a moment, next recognition and comfort set in, that security moving hurriedly from remembrance to despair.

"I'm sorry," Don rasped.

Alan watched helplessly as his son began slipping away from him, to hide, attempting to retreat from the world around them into the nether regions of his mind, eyes glossing over as his conscious awareness sank into far recesses of thought, almost unreachable.

_Almost_.

Alan desperately cried to him, pleaded, "Donny, no, don't leave me, don't go."

Frantically pushing the call button, simultaneously grasping his son's hand, tightening his grip, refusing to let go.

Alan dared to slip an arm under his son's neck and pull him tightly to his chest, rocking gently back and forth with a deep guttural sob escaping from his mouth at last.

"_No, Donny, no."_

White-robed people gathered around them, Dr. Patel's hand landing softly on his shoulder, trying to pull him from his son but Alan resisted.

"Mr. Eppes, please, let us do our job!"

Don still in his arms, Alan no longer wanted their help, continued to do what he now knew he must, throw out a lifeline of assurances to his son, beseech him to grab hold and pull himself up-

Though ravaged and scarred, return to his father.

"_Come home, Donny, come home."_


	7. Chapter 7

_He was seventeen and strong, more so than any other boy his age. At times, he felt himself invincible. _

_But not today._

_Today, he was fragile._

_He stood at the center of a baseball field, the only player left in a game that he hadn't planned to play. _

_The crowds were long gone._

_The teams had disappeared. _

_He was alone._

_He stood on the pitcher's mound, holding a ball, unable to see, only sensing where he was, his vision impaired because darkness had lowered to earth as a heavy mantle, impenetrable._

_Silence and he was afraid to move, unable to determine the next play, where he should go, what he should do, nobody to guide him, so he stood where he was, rolling the ball between the fingers of his right hand, wondering how long before the game was called off and he could go home. _

_Home._

_A smidgen of heaven split open above him and a ribbon of moonlight sliced through the fabric of darkness, narrow, reaching the ground, its pale glow bathing the field, spreading wispily along tender blades of grass till he could vaguely see all around him, old wire fence caging him in, bases angled with sharp corners tilted upwards, bleachers with reflective alabaster surfaces like rickety old bones, jumbled outside, beyond, while the band of moonlight far in front of him moved resolutely, searching._

_Somehow he knew, searching for him._

_He took a step forward, then another._

_Suddenly, the earth crumbled under his feet, he was at the edge of a ravine widening with each breathe that he drew, cracking open further to either side, splitting at the seams. _

_Precariously, he stood there, petrified, the chasm before him crumbling along the walls, large wedges of dirt bellowing downwards within the cavernous realm, frigid air blasting upwards when the compressed earth impacted the bottom, surging upwards in a swirling breeze of frosted black dust, tiny particles alighting on his body in a thin coating, shivers and trembles. _

_He stepped back, tried to brush his skin free of soil, feeling sullied, defiled._

_Heaven's breach distended, moonbeam expanding in width, the moon itself descended to earth, settled, the radiance of the milky sphere warming him, serenity, the heavenly body reposing across the field in front of him, on the other side of the ravine, unreachable._

_Almost._

_Don watched as the moon sent out ivory lines along the ground, pearly streaks that glittered as they came closer, luminescent bridges spanning the gap in front of him, offering narrow pathways for him to safely walk upon once they reached him._

_He took a tentative step, his eyes upon his feet, conscious of the deep abyss that awaited him a few paces away, hand tightly gripping the ball in his hand._

_The moon called to him and he looked up, brilliance burning his eyes as he advanced forward, never straying his gaze from it, the moon decreasing in mass while he stepped closer and closer still, the surface of the diminishing orb becoming pliable, its exterior layer shifting into identifiable forms- eyes, ears, nose...smiling mouth._

_All light leaked from its core, fled; haloed the moon while it suffused the sky beyond._

_Other faces emerged from the evanescent glow._

_Don gripped the baseball tightly with his fingers and felt a hand in its stead. _

_Recognizable, familiar-_

_Safe._

"_Dad?"_

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"Yes, Donny, it's me," Alan smiled, dampness underlining his eyes.

Don looked around him, blinking rapidly so his eyes could adjust to the harsh overhead lights past his father's drawn and weary face, trying to decipher the objects in the room, take in the people milling about, piecing together the visual evidence into the simple answer: hospital room. A male doctor took the place of his father and flashed a light into his eyes, checked his reflexes, introduced himself as Dr. Patel before asking some questions. Don responded with short yes and no answers, kept his eyes glued to every movement the other man made, requested a sip of water from his father when the doctor seemed satisfied with his exam, told a nurse no when she asked if he wanted something to eat.

Alan brought forward a cup with a straw.

Don drank thirstily, coughing when the cold hit the back of his throat, feeling soreness and pain.

"Whoa, not too fast," Alan said, withdrawing the cup from Don's reach. "How are you feeling?"

Don thought about this, tried to ignore the expectant eyes all about him, tried to move his limbs, frowned in confusion when he felt the constraints holding them down, and panicked slightly at the loss of control. As fast as they could, three nurses pushed forward, unbound him and his breathing slowed, then he let out a small grunt when several streams of pain flooded through him.

"I'll increase the dosage," Dr. Patel said, making a notation on a chart, "but with all the other medications we have coursing into you, I'm afraid I can't do so by much. Try to stay still and rest." He left the room with his entourage of nurses, leaving Don alone with his father and a woman who had been standing aside, back in a corner of the room.

Her identity puzzled Don. She approached, whispered something in his father's ear.

"Donny," Alan said, holding his hand again. "Do you feel up to answering a few more questions?"

"Who is she?" he asked, his voice coarse.

"I'm Dr. Wyndham," she said, extending a hand. Don released his father's and took hers, shaking it politely. The doctor was a blonde, hair in a tight bun, mid-forties, but looking good for her age, petite. Lines formed on her brow when her hand touched his. "I'm a psychiatrist; the Bureau assigned me to your case."

She waited for his reaction. He gave her none.

"Agent Eppes...or do you prefer Don?" Dr. Wyndham displayed a weak smile.

"Don is fine," he replied tiredly, his eyes crinkling as he tried to reassure her with his own benevolent smile that he wouldn't be offended at anything she called him, quickly halted its development when he felt the tightness of his skin and wicked facial scars stretching, causing more unwanted pain.

"Do you want me to stay, Donny?" his father asked. Don nodded, winced as a throb started at his temples. Thankfully, a nurse appeared, excused herself around the doctor and his father, injected something into his IV and then left, a pleasant feeling warming its way through his system the only indication she had ever been there.

Alan went around to the other side of Don's bed, sat down on an exposed portion of bedding, facing his son, and clasped his hand in both of his own, ready to stop the questioning at any sign of panic or anxiety on Don's face or in his currently-steadied fingers.

"Don," Dr. Wyndham went to the side table and took up an agenda, opened it to a fresh page and slipped the pen from its holder, pulled up a chair near to him, sat down, poised, ready to write. "I'm going to ask you some questions about what happened last night. You only have to respond to the ones you feel comfortable answering at this time. If I go too fast or you don't want me to continue, say so at any time. We don't have to rush this procedure-I can always come back tomorrow or another day."

"Okay, but..."

"Yes, Don?"

His voice still raspy, he asked, "Why a psychiatrist? Look, shouldn't a regular agent be leading this investigation?"

"I'm not leading this investigation, just doing the initial interview. After my assessment, I'll make suggestions as to how we can help you heal. I'm also acting as a sort of liaison for all, um, interested parties, including the Bureau and the police."

"Oh," Don replied, still confused about her presence, wandering about the lack of his brother's. Charlie always dropped everything to come to the hospital anytime Don was injured, no matter how insignificant the damage done- and his current condition was anything but. Strangely, it appeared that his father had made the decision to keep Charlie out of the loop, had not contacted him with the news his brother was hospitalized; this made no sense to Don. Since he and his brother had been steadily working together, Don had agreed with his father that he should no longer hide from Charlie any injuries that he sustained. That was something Don had had a habit of doing when he'd been working far from home- but not since moving back again. So, why wasn't Charlie here? Or any of his colleagues- they all had the day off and at least one of them should have shown up once they heard a group of thugs had beat him to a pulp. Don's mind wandered back from these puzzlements when Dr. Wyndham spoke to him once more.

"If you have any other questions," she tried to reassure him, "please feel free to ask. Now, can you first walk me through the events of last night? Just tell me the generalities. And take it as slow as you want to go; I'm in no hurry."

"Actually, there's not much to tell" he replied with a chuckle, which died on his lips when he heard Wyndham um-hum something and saw her make a jot in her agenda. Frowning, he modulated his voice to one that was more professional. "I decided to have a drink after work." He coughed again, "Sorry, I must be catching a cold. My throat feels sore."

Alan gave him the cup of water again, and Don sipped the cool liquid, careful to take in a small amount, mindful of the pain that surged at the top of his esophagus each time he swallowed.

When he finished, Don laid back against his pillows. Wyndham ran her eyes over his face, recording his expression. It was relaxed, no indication of stress. Several more lines written down, then, "That's fine, Don. Go at your own pace. When we finish, I'll let the nurse know you may need something for your throat."

"Thank you." Deep breath, then in a monotone, as if on a witness stand," I...I stopped at a bar, took up a conversation with this guy. He was about six-five, early thirties, built pretty well, and wore a t-shirt, jeans. I guess at some point he slipped me a Mickey. Then he took me out in the back alley. He and his friends rolled me for my wallet," Don lowered his eyebrows in concern, "might have taken my gun…no, the Bureau has that… maybe my badge."

"Don't worry- the police officers running the scene found your badge."

"That's a relief."

Wyndham tapped her pen, chewing on a corner of her lip, trying to gauge what Don was feeling, bothered that his body language and verbiage was loose, comfortable, lacking in stress- _and he had failed to mention any aspect of the rape_. She knew it was possible he was first waiting to see if they already knew what had occurred, maybe in the weak hope that nobody would ever find out the truth, but if that was the reason for him not discussing it there should still be some outward sign of anxiety that he couldn't hide, even if it was minor. Instead, the attitude he was displaying seemed to portray a man who honestly believed the story he had just told- _he and his friends rolled me for my wallet._

With the unspoken implication _and that's all._

It was understandable that Don would prefer the simple story he had told her instead of the actual one. Getting mugged might be a crime that was a little embarrassing for an agent of Don's prestige to admit having occurred to him, but it was also something one with his demeanor could easily shrug off as a stupid mistake, something he could accept having happened to him, maybe even believe he could keep from occurring a second time, a crime with which it was still possible for the man to still feel like he had been left with some control over his reactions, his options, his life.

Not like rape.

Dr. Wyndham decided to deviate from her linear questioning, to hop around the vague details Don had provided her, hoping to get honest feedback from him, hoping he was simply trying to avoid admitting that he had been raped and wasn't completely suppressing the more lurid aspects of the event.

"What did his friends look like?" she began again.

"I'm not sure," Don replied, suddenly turning his face straight ahead and stiffening, "It was almost pitch black in the alleyway."

"Can you try to picture them for me?"

"I'll try but..."

With a little more prodding from Dr. Wyndham, Don closed his eyes.

"It was hard to see..."

_dark_

"But I think one guy was in his mid-twenties..."

_big hands, thick muscles _

"Maybe blond hair..."

_dry lips, straight teeth_

"A-another one was taller..."

_smooth chest, calloused fingers_

"And...and..."

_bet you've always dreamed 'bout someone like me_

"Nothing else," Don sputtered, throwing open his eyes, putting a shaky hand to one of the bandages on his head as testament to his next words, "Th-they must have slugged me and I p-passed out- _nothing else_."

Alan glared at Dr. Wyndham and she halted that line of questioning, switching to another portion of the slim story Don had told her, wanting him to understand, with his own deductive skills and reasoning, that his assertion that he had only been robbed was not substantiated by the description of the event that he himself had given her.

"They attempted to take your wallet?" she asked.

"I'm assuming..." he said, his hair and palms slicking with sweat.

"Because there was nothing else you had that they would want?"

"No," he responded hollowly, "except my badge...or, or my gun."

"What if I told you we found your wallet?" Dr. Wyndham let her agenda hang loosely in her hand, no longer writing, legs crossed and leaning forward, focusing all of her attention on Don.

"They must have ditched it." Don's responses were emotionless, his eyes glazed and unseeing, fixated in front of him, his whole demeanor as one detached.

"What if I told you nothing was missing from it?"

"They must have taken some of my money...I tend to carry quite a bit." A stiff monotone came from his lips, which barely moved, his entire body motionless.

"What if I told you that we found no fingerprints indicating the wallet had ever been opened- just gripped long enough to be tossed aside on the ground?"

Don's eyes wavered back and forth.

"They must have...must have taken my- my gun..."

"No, Don, you left your gun with the Bureau."

"Then, m-my badge..."

"No, we found your badge."

"M-must have been scared away before th-they could take anything..."

Dr. Wyndham paused, uncertain if it was best to play her trump card at this time, so soon after the trauma. Would she push Don over the edge by throwing it down? It was possible, she thought, but whether it was now or later, the reality of the rape _would _sink in- _much better to bring it up now than when he's without a safety net._ So she showed Don all that she held in her hand, "What if I told you there was a witness- a sixth person in that alleyway, someone who saw everything that happened?"

Don murmured almost inaudibly, "Rolled...rolled me for my wallet...th-that's all."

Dr. Wyndham continued, "What if I told you this witness said he saw five men in that alleyway, and that one of them was being sexually assaulted by the other four?"

Don shrank into the linen of his hospital bed, his features pulled downward into a despondent countenance and he stared, unblinking, at the far wall, his hand slipping from his father's.

_blackness_

"Don?"

_grime_

"Agent Eppes?- are you alright?"

_pain_

"Donny?" Alan broke in, rubbing a thumb over the top of his hand.

Don turned his face towards his father and unemotionally asked, "Can I sleep now? I-I'm tired. Can I please?"

Alan's chest heaved in despair at the childlike request and he turned his attention to the woman sitting at the edge of her seat on the other side of the bed. The scowl he threw Dr. Wyndham hit her hard enough to bruise; she nodded in agreement with his unspoken demand that they stop, mouthing reassurances and a promise to return, then stole from the room while Alan told his son, "Yes, Donny. You go to sleep now. I'll be right by your side all night, okay?"

Don nodded and closed his eyes. Alan slid off the bed and tucked him in, planting several kisses before turning down the lights, pulling a padded recliner next to the bed and settling down to a restless sleep while his son began to snore unevenly.

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Once Charlie was informed that Don would be out of his reach for a while, he left F.B.I. headquarters and headed to his office, planning to concentrate on figuring out a mathematical problem he had set upon a week before, determined to solve it in lieu of deciphering the undisclosed emotional turmoil that Don had been experiencing- and the reasons for his own inability in helping his brother solve it.

He soon found his attempt at work to be another failed endeavor.

Charlie's nimble fingers etched out different numbers and symbols with a small nib of chalk, but every few inches he stopped his chicken scratch and his hand wavered in the air before habitually reaching for his cell phone to hit the speed dial button for Don's number, the anguished professor tearing at his hair when he received no response, especially agitated when he eventually received the message that indicated the phone itself was out of range for use- or worse, shut off. It became impossible for Charlie to concentrate on the algorithms before him, so he abandoned them, hurriedly snatching up a stack of papers and throwing his laptop case over his shoulder before rushing from the school, intent on carrying through with the threat he'd made to Megan: to use some of the underhanded techniques he'd learned while working with the NSA- and his high level security clearance- to search the world of espionage and undercover investigations for any indication as to with which one his brother was involved. Charlie could not help himself- he needed to reach Don.

This plan fell through within ten minutes of his arrival at home.

Charlie dropped his possessions on the side table in his entryway, threw off his jacket, and was in the middle of setting up his laptop to start his own covert rescue operation of his and Don's relationship when a smell of sweet jasmine wafted through the air, lightly tickling at his senses. Thus mesmerized, Charlie turned towards the source of the fragrance and stopped, completely and thoroughly stunned.

Amita was floating down the stairs from the second floor of his house, a wondrously thin red silk sheathe just barely adhering to her body. By Charlie's configuration later that evening, he was unable to breathe for all of four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, during which time Amita alighted in front of him and apologized.

"I hope I didn't startle you," she told him, knowing that she had- _as planned. _"You told me Monday I could come here and get ready since your house is closer to Cal Sci than my apartment is."

Charlie stared at her in bewilderment, now in response to her statement more than her breathtaking appearance.

Recognizing the confused look on his face as one of forgetfulness, Amita folded her arms and sternly said, "Charlie, it's almost four o'clock. Millie will be picking us up in about fifteen minutes- I assume you didn't forget we have one last dinner with some of our most distinguished alumni this evening?"

Charlie shook his head, getting a grip on what Amita was telling him, replying no, of course not, ran upstairs and shocked Amita by returning shortly, dressed in suit and tie, hair in controlled ringlets, in less time than it had taken her to apply gloss to her lips. The rest of the afternoon and early evening went by at a similar busied rate, from a brief dinner and fundraising talk, to dancing and more efforts to entice donations, till a final bid good bye to Millie as the sun was still hanging loosely above the horizon.

At last, Charlie and Amita were alone, set up in his living room with the curtains drawn and the lights off. After scrounging up a bottle of wine and two glasses, pouring them a generous amount that they quickly imbued, Charlie kneeled before his fireplace, stoking the wood for heat. Amita slipped off her heels and folded her legs comfortably, watching the man she loved.

"Do you think we're safe?" she said playfully.

"Huh? Oh, sure. I locked all the doors..." Charlie grinned bashfully when Amita grinned at him. "You don't mean that literally, do you?"

"No, Charlie," she said to him with a toss of her hair, "I mean from your family. It seems like every time we get started...I don't mean to complain, Charlie, but sometimes I feel like we're in high school and are sneaking around, you know, worried that your parents are going to walk in on us and ground you."

Charlie joined Amita on the couch, sitting an amiable distance away. "I'm sorry, but my dad does live here, too."

"I know, but it's not just him. It seems like Don is always around, too, and _he_ doesn't live here."

At the mention of his brother, Charlie dropped his head forward, resting his arms on his legs, twisting his fingers into knots. Amita scooted over, sitting right next to him. "I heard about Don, that he'll be gone for a while." Charlie shot her a questioning glance. "Megan told Larry, and, well, he told me."

"It would be easier if I knew he was doing alright," Charlie spoke to his hands, "that things were okay between us. But there's no way for us to talk. I've tried calling his cell but I don't get any response. It's like he purposely cut himself off from me."

"Well," Amita said, laying a hand on Charlie's knee and subtly shifting her body towards him, "I'm not so sure I agree with that. I think Don did want to talk to you, and it's probably bothering him, too, that he can't."

"What makes you say that?"

Amita began subtly rubbing Charlie's knee. "Didn't you say he answered his phone last night, sometime around two a.m.?"

"But he didn't say anything..."

Amita's hand rose up to rest on the lower part of his thigh as she leaned forward, whispering, "Charlie, he didn't tell you anything in words- but he did answer your call. Maybe he was just as desperate to talk as you were, but like Megan said, his job prevented him. Answering the phone might have been the best he could do to, I don't know, send you a message, tell you he wanted to keep"-

"Our lines of communication open," Charlie finished for her, hope rising in his voice. "Do you really think so, Amita?"

"Yes, Charlie, I do," she replied, lifting her hand and entwining it in his hair, playing with a curl, stretching a leg out and wrapping it around his calf. "Don loves you. No matter what you say to each other, I think you know that."

"I do," Charlie said, absentmindedly disengaging from Amita and standing up, stepping forward in front of the fire, seeking warmth from the wrong entity in the room.

"Charlie!" Amita said harshly.

Charlie jumped and turned to her, took in her frustrated look and crossed arms. "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

"_Say_ something? No," she said in an exasperated voice, "_do_ something, yes."

He continued to stare at her in confusion, so Amita stood up and went to him, one hand on her hip the other waving in the air as she stated emphatically, "Charlie, we are in a darkened living room, sitting by a roaring fire, plenty of wine flowing through us, all alone for the first time in months and the only relationship you're thinking about is yours and Don's"-

-"Charlie- _what about ours_?"

Taken aback, Charlie stuttered, "But, Don's important to me..."

"I know that," Amita said, her voice and stance softening, "your love for Don and your dad is one of the things that make you so attractive." At his shy smile she moved closer to him, so they were standing within a hair's breathe of each other, the light of the fire flickering off their bodies and providing a visual display of their growing passion. "Adorable," she purred, "sweet, cuddly, darling." Amita slid her hand into his hair again and this time Charlie tilted his head, his cheek lying gingerly against it, his eyes meeting hers as she murmured, "charming, kissable...mmm...sexy."

Charlie leaned forward, slipping his hands around her waist and brushing his lips over hers, their bodies pressing together as her hands found their way to his back and they were molded as one, lips finally meeting and the raging heat they felt rivaled the flames roaring in the fireplace.

Soon they were lying on the couch, Amita resting her body on top of Charlie's, playing with a button on his dress shirt. "I don't want to be selfish," she said quietly, "but right now I can't help it. I'm not happy that Don went away. But we don't always have a lot of time to be alone and I really think we should take advantage of it."

"Hmmm," he replied, "you know, if I knew we needed to spend more time together, I would have been over at your apartment more often."

"That solution never lasts beyond a day," she pointed out, "you, Charles Eppes, can not survive being away from your precious garage for very long."

"Can't argue there. But you forget my father. It might not seem like it, but he actually _is _around more often than Don."

Amita hadn't forgotten Alan. "But he has this new contract. Wasn't he forced to be on site for the duration of his last project- didn't you tell me he practically moved out of the house for a while?"

Charlie thought about this, his attention torn between what Amita was saying and how her weight felt against him. "Well, yeah, for a while."

"Was it at least three weeks?" she asked hopefully, referring to the length of time Larry had told her Don was supposed to be gone.

"More like three months. I only saw him on the weekends, and sometimes not even then."

"Well," she turned her face towards him, resting her chin on his chest, "if you're father's going to be gone, too, even if it's just some nights or weekends, then I am going to be selfish and ask that you concentrate on our relationship. When Don gets back, I promise to step aside and let you two have all the space you need to fix any problems between you. But for now, I want it to be all about _us_."

"Agreed," Charlie told her, leaning in for a kiss, stopping when his cell phone shrilled and he clumsily flipped it open, listening to the sound of his father explaining where he was, that he would be spending the night at a hotel. Remembering Amita's comment about his father working on site, it was at this point that Charlie unknowingly provided his father with the excuse he needed to stay with Don.

When Charlie finished talking with his father, Amita wisely took the phone from his hand and turned it off. "But what if Don tries to..." Charlie protested.

Amita kissed him, burying her flesh against his and his senses were filled with her, his mind departing from his concerns about his brother to those about the woman he loved. Charlie had one last fleeting thought about Don, a brief prayer that his brother would not be away any more time than the finite number of three weeks; that his path would soon lead him back home.

Then Charlie redirected all roads of thought- mental, physical, and emotional- so they led to Amita.


	8. Chapter 8

Alan was reminded of worker ants when a stream of nurses poured into Don's room at an obscene hour of the morning.

The elder man had lain awkwardly in the hospital recliner most of the night, slumbering lightly when his body demanded it though his mind resisted, occasionally getting to his feet when he heard Don muttering in his sleep, every time he leaned over his son the same phrase fell from Don's lips, words that afflicted Alan with further anguish because they beckoned Alan with a request that he could not fulfill-

"_please...make them stop._"

At a few minutes after midnight, long before the deluge of personnel that woke him a final time, a single nurse had silently entered the room and asked Alan if he wanted a blanket and pillow, if he'd like for her to get an orderly to set up a cot. Alan had refused, wanting to be alert if Don needed him, which the uncomfortable nature of the recliner enabled him to do.

She returned later as one soldier within the small army of nurses sent to tend to Don and when they marched in, Alan stood, stepping back, out of their way.

They amazed him. Their team stealthily gathered around Don, one checking that he was still asleep, another shooting something into his IV, then staring at her watch until she made a signal to the rest of her comrades, a stray leaving momentarily before returning with a doctor, who began guiding the entire procession as the nurses moved in, portioning Don's body off into sections, each area to be unwrapped, wiped down, cleansed and treated before covered again, then on to the next- head, shoulders, chest, nether regions-the doctor halting their activity as each wound was exposed then he thoroughly searched for signs of infection, compassionate pauses in between when low mumbles fell from Don's lips, the battalion waiting to verify their patient continued to be unconscious and unaware of their actions, the epitome of kindness and previous experience guiding their mission as they were aware their patient would not want to be touched so intimately, knowing that they must in order to treat his wounds, then they were moving as one again, strong but gentle hands maneuvering Don this way and that, the doctor hastily scribbling across a board before disappearing, leaving the nurses to provide the finishing touches of fresh linen and a gown, a repositioning of gauze over Don's left temple before, in single file, they crawled back into the silent chambers of the hospital, returning from whence they'd come.

Alan went to Don and adjusted the blankets over him, looked at the time, decided he better make his appearance at home, gather his things together, make a reservation at a local hotel just in case. More kisses for his son and he left, not relishing the thought of seeing his other son for the lies he would have to tell.

The sun had yet to thoroughly break through the morning sky when Alan arrived home. When he got out of his car, he squared his shoulders and tried to shed the heavy weight that dragged down his entire appearance so he might somehow present himself to Charlie without giving away the burden he was bearing. He quietly entered the house, his eyes never noticing the visiting car sitting directly in front, parked next to the curb.

Alan busied himself with breakfast, the sight of the kitchen door enough to remind him he hadn't eaten in a day. He'd just finished packing the dishwasher when he realized it was far past the time Charlie usually woke up. An uncontrollable feeling of panic forced Alan to rush out to the garage-_empty_- before upstairs to make sure his youngest was safe, unharmed. It was only when he stood in front of Charlie's bedroom door that Alan calmed down enough so that he didn't burst inside, choosing to knock instead.

Receiving no response, he quietly pushed the door open a few inches, stopping when he saw the bundle lying under the blankets and the bushel of curly, black hair spread out across the pillows at the top of the bed, a long, thin arm nestled amongst it.

A woman's thin arm, not Charlie's, Alan realized immediately.

He closed the door and walked downstairs, sad. Charlie was finally going forward with his relationship with Amita and Alan could not share in his joy. Sad, so sad, that his two sons' lives seemed to be diverging, one on a pathway of personal and professional success, the other slipping down an ever-bending slope towards misery. It was unfair that Alan could not be there for both of them, but he had to accept that for now. It would be impossible to bask in the glow of Charlie and Amita's developing love and then turn around to sink into the darkness that was enveloping his other son. The conflict of these two emotional atmospheres would split Alan in half if he tried to jump back and forth between the two.

Of course, he reflected, I could just tell Charlie what happened to Don; then we could all be miserable together.

After packing a few necessities and taking a brief- and quiet- shower, Alan wrote a short note to Charlie, explaining he would be out of town till the next week, telling him with tongue-in-cheek that Charlie's guest should feel welcome to stay and not fear interruptions of any of their planned activities from the eldest member of the Eppes family. Alan was certain Charlie would think his father was staying away to give him and Amita some time alone, which was partially true. The young couple did need this time together. And Alan thought it best to give it to them when they could enjoy it. Too soon, they would learn of Don's assault and knowing his youngest son, Alan was sure Charlie would want to help Don in any way possible, give all of his attention to him, and would not allow the thinnest shadow of Amita to come between him and his brother- even if it meant the loss of her love.

Better, Alan thought as he threw his suitcase into the back of his car, that Charlie and Amita be solidified in their love for one another before having to focus on Don and his needs. Then when Charlie turned his back on her, as he inevitably would, she would have enough of his love left inside her to hold them together for the duration, even when they were physically apart.

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Don peered around him, trying to get comfortable on the bed, unable to do so.

He hated hospitals.

For over twenty minutes, he had been lying there, refusing to alert the attending nurse that he had awakened. Don wanted to be alone for a while, to be allowed to appreciate the quiet and solitude of his private room, nobody around to bother him.

Especially, he thought angrily, that crazy psychiatrist.

He had expected the Bureau would want his version of how he'd come to be physically assaulted, knew that it would be treated as a crime against a federal officer and had waited patiently for the agent in charge of his case to appear and question him.

Only, that woman had come instead, surprising him. Why did they send a psychiatrist?

Don wiggled on the bed. His skin felt sticky, like it was glued to the linen, probably from sweat he supposed.

At first, he had thought there was a chance that Megan talked to Merrick the previous day and told their supervisor that Don had been acting moody lately. It had crossed Don's mind that Merrick might think his top agent purposely sought out the fight in an attempt to relieve the stress of the job through the physical exertion of punching somebody else, a stupid but not unheard of thing to do. Thus, send a psychiatrist to see if Don was on a path to self-destruction. Don hadn't been pleased that his supervisor suspected he was heading towards burnout, but still, he had been willing to accept Dr. Wyndham's presence simply because he was tired and just wanted to get the questioning over with.

But that hadn't been the reason she was sent.

Don gripped the sheet beneath his hands, his temper flaring through his nostrils. Then just as quickly he released them, lifting his palms to his face, confusion replacing his anger. Clean, he thought, my hands look clean. His leaned forward and stared at the sheet, ran the tips of his fingers over it. Nothing there, yet when Don dropped his hands an odd feeling came over him once again. His skin prickled and he sighed. Must be the damn detergent they use, he thought wearily, making my skin feel gritty. He settled against the bedding and tried to refocus his thoughts on Dr. Wyndham's visit.

He had been shocked-no, _mortified_ when she had let slip her reason for being assigned to his case, subtly bringing up the statement a supposed witness had given them about seeing the attack on Don, this unreliable witness having claimed it had been more than physical; that it had, of all things, been- okay, now this was difficult to say because it was so improbable, was ridiculous, insane- but the witness had mistakenly thought the assault had been, ahem, sexual.

Don found the accusation preposterous and, well, _insulting_. He was an experienced agent, had run his own office, and was now a team leader with a slew of solved cases under his belt. Don flexed his muscles, a small moan escaping his lips from the underlying ache of the action, but he was satisfied at their contours; he was well-built, stronger than he'd ever been thanks to regular workouts with David and Colby. Sure, the younger men could perform better than him, lift weights longer, but Don had been holding his own- he had all his life. Now, nearly forty years old, he was still at peak physical performance and with his Bureau training in self defense…

Well, it was plain crazy to think he'd led anybody do _that _to him.

Don scratched at his left shoulder. The bandages weren't taped to him, yet underneath them his skin felt gummy. The more he thought about it, his entire body felt that way. He couldn't quite put a word to it. He was dirty, that was for sure, but that could be expected since he hadn't bathed in over twenty-four hours. With the schedule he kept at the Bureau, he hated to admit that going without a shower for that long sometimes wasn't that unusual. Most often he'd try to catch a few minutes under a spray of hot water in the locker room at work and then throw on a fresh set of clothes. Other times it just wasn't possible. Yet he'd never felt so unclean before, even after a good workout, never felt so- how would one describe it- so grimy.

For some reason, his thoughts strayed back to Dr. Wyndham.

Apparently, the woman wanted to believe Don had been sexually assaulted no matter what Don had to say about it. It was obvious she didn't want honest answers from him, only the ones she wanted to hear. That's why she had purposely avoided bringing up the subject when they first began to talk, when he was alert. Instead, she had mentioned the witness' statement much later when she knew Don wouldn't be as focused on their conversation, clearly not wanting to give him a chance to offer a precisely-stated denial, wanting to catch him off guard so he couldn't effectively refute her claims.

And she had.

She had caught him off guard. The accusation had come from so far out of left field he hadn't been able to reposition himself to meet it and volley it back at her. Thank God for his instincts, he thought smugly, they had told him not to respond just yet, to gain himself more time so he could process all that she clearly believed and come up with feasible explanations for the evidence she had presented to him, ones that would nullify even the remotest possibility that something other than a failed mugging had gone down. So Don had claimed he was tired and needed to go to sleep, which thankfully he had.

But she'll be back again, Don thought sullenly; he was sure of it. He sniffed his nose and reached for a Kleenex, sniffing a second time. Odd, he thought, that smell isn't ammonia. Over the years, he'd been in hospitals numerous times, for himself and for his mother. And he knew what they smelled like- a combination of ammonia and detergent. But this wasn't either, though it _was _caustic to his sense of smell. Don lifted up the blankets from over his groin, checking the catheter still attached to him and the line running over his hip to the top of the bag hanging on the side of his bed. He couldn't see its contents, but he was sure that it needed to be changed. Why else would he be smelling urine? Don dropped the blankets and crossed his arms protectively, wondering why he had been brought to a hospital with filthy beds and nurses who didn't have enough sense to empty a bag of urine when it was full.

Rape.

His mind suddenly spit the word out, chilling him. How could they think…? It was so improbable Don couldn't understand why they believed he had been. Sure, he was beaten to a matted pulp, but this wasn't the first time he'd taken a hit this hard. There was that time right out of the academy…

Don shook his head, wincing at the swish of pain at his temple.

Maybe it was time to call that nurse, get some medicine.

But he made no effort to move, the familiar pain in his head welcome because another unknown one was starting to rise in competition for his attention, a searing discomfort that was in a region where he'd never felt pain before, had never once in all the years he'd been in fights or had been shot, not even when he'd been beaten so severely that first time out of the academy. The dull throb in his head was different; it was a familiar sensation he'd had before, one that indicated he had been knocked around and given a good lump on the noggin, nothing more. Not like the thin strips of soreness that were beginning to make themselves known ever more subtly within softer and more tender areas of his body, regions where he'd never, ever felt pain. The slow throb of his head covered these new sensations, allowed him to keep the foreign pain at bay in a stubborn refusal that it even existed, because acknowledging it would mean Dr. Wyndham might be right, that maybe more had happened than he was willing to admit.

_Darkness_

That more had occurred in that alleyway than just a physical assault and attempted mugging.

_We found your wallet…_

No!

Don forced Dr. Wyndham's words from his mind. There had to be some way to convince her that she was wrong, that despite what evidence they had gathered he had simply been a victim of a common assault. Don was a good investigator; when he put his mind to it, he could solve a puzzle just as well as his brother. By the time Dr. Wyndham questioned him again, he'd be ready with all the right answers, would be in a position to stand up to her accusations and point out the fallacy of what her witness had said, would have alternative interpretations to the evidence.

After all, Don had been there. He knew the truth. He had never been raped and once he was able to convince Wyndham of this, everything would be back to normal, just the way it had been before he'd been attacked.

He would be normal again, Don thought with a sigh of relief, normal.

Absentmindedly, he ran his hand through what hair on his head was not covered by bandages.

Dirty, he thought, need to wash it.


	9. Chapter 9

Colby pulled his car into the parking lot and shut off the engine, sitting staring at the squat, non-descript building in front of him.

Army, he thought, I sure never planned on working for them again.

He'd arrived at the office early that morning about the same time as the rest of his team members, sans Don, anticipating a new case. It would've been the first one they'd worked without their boss, but it wasn't something unheard of within the Bureau. After all, sometimes a team leader _was_ sent on assignment or went to a conference, would even occasionally go on vacation; they couldn't shut down an entire government entity over the absence of one person. Megan, being Don's partner, would simply run the case, though they probably wouldn't be given any high profile ones that Merrick would only entrust to Don's supervision. Still, whatever assignment they were handed, they'd be working together, business as usual.

_Not,_ Colby thought petulantly.

Merrick had other plans for them.

They had been called into his office and the old man had explained that they were being outsourced to help on other cases. Great opportunity, Merrick had said, make new contacts for the LA office, and gain invaluable experience for you. Trust me, he'd said while handing over three different dossiers and then walking them politely out the door, you'll thank me later.

Sure, Megan will be thanking him later, Colby thought bitterly. She'd been excited to learn she was assigned to assist Dr. Evan Richards, foremost name in behavior analysis, currently working several cases for the Bureau in Virginia. With plane tickets already in hand and a quaint little place rented near Quantico waiting for her, Megan sounded like she was going on an all-expense-paid vacation funded by the Bureau.

She'd barely said good-bye before heading out the door to go home and pack.

_Plane leaves this afternoon, _she'd apologized. With Larry still on the space shuttle, there was no reason she couldn't jet off at a moment's notice.

David hadn't seemed as pleased, but he was receptive to working with the LAPD because he would be practically leading the investigation he was assisting with, a single instance involving the sale of materials and/or weapons in which different terrorist cells might be interested in purchasing. As representative of the Bureau and the only one on the case with experience dealing with terrorist activity, David would be acting in a supervisory role while they determined if this had been a one time deal for the people involved, or if there were was a more organized group backing them with other activities in the works. All in all, it was great opportunity for David to prove he had the ability to work in a managerial position.

Unlike me, Colby said to himself with full misery.

Army.

At first, the young agent felt like he was going home; well, sort of. At least it was with an agency whose inner machinations he was familiar with. Then he had seen his assignment. On paper, he would be assisting in the investigation of a murder that might be one in a string of seven similar crimes at different Army bases around the world, all having taken place over the course of fifteen years. In reality, Colby realized he'd be working as a glorified secretary, minus the glory; he was expected to take notes about the case when requested, help catalogue and pack the evidence, and then forward the completed packages to Quantico so their forensics team could see if they could come up with anything the Army hadn't.

Colby was not allowed to give any input; just do as they told him to do.

He finally got out of his car, adjusted his tie and headed to work, guessing it wouldn't be any worse than boot camp. A lot of following orders and knowing how to keep his mouth shut.

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When Alan returned to the hospital, he found Dr. Wyndham waiting for him at the nurses' station.

"Mr. Eppes, I was just coming to check on Don."

Alan eyed her distrustfully. His first assessment of the woman had been that she was kind, caring, would take care of his son. But after the way she'd upset Don the day before, Alan was no longer certain this was true.

"Come with me, Mr. Eppes. I think we need to talk."

He followed her through the corridor to the room they'd previously used. They took opposing seats, the psychiatrist dropping a large satchel at her side. Once settled, Alan attempted to speak first, but Dr. Wyndham started before he had a chance to open his mouth.

"You're angry at me, aren't you?"

"Yes," he readily replied, "the way you went after Don was just plain cruel."

"Mr. Eppes…"

"Call me Alan."

"Thank you." Dr. Wyndham adjusted her skirt and folded her hands over her lap. "Alan, Don is in a precarious state of mind at this time. He has been violated in a way that is so severe, so penetrating, you and I, hopefully, will _never_ really understand what he is going through. But despite our inability to completely identify with him, we can, through what others in his place have told us, be there to help him come to grips as to the reality of this trauma and assure him that he can survive it."

"I don't know, Dr. Wyndham…"

"Michelle."

"Thanks," Alan said dismissively, "Look- when you questioned Don yesterday, he seemed to, I don't know, shrivel up. Should we really be pushing him to talk about it now when he's so weak?

"Alan, I'm not asking Don to talk about it."

"I'm confused- wasn't that the purpose of all those questions?"

"Initially, yes, my purpose was to have him discuss the assault and how he feels about it, gauge the mental and emotional damage it had caused. But since talking to him, my focus has changed. During my interview with him yesterday, I gathered the impression that he has made a conscious decision to pretend as if the assault never happened at all- essentially, to lie to us and more importantly, to himself. _That _is why he shrank from my questions; when I confronted him with irrefutable evidence that he had been raped, he asked to go to sleep so he could mentally hide from what I was saying and wouldn't have to admit the truth- to any of us. So I no longer want him to talk about the rape, nor give me a description of what occurred. That will have to come later. For now, all I want him to do is admit the truth and _acknowledge_ that he has been raped."

"But if we force him to admit that, the stress might be too much for him. What if he snaps from the pressure? Then he'd never…"

"Be the same again?" Dr. Wyndham finished for him.

Alan dropped his head into his hands, rubbing them briskly over his face, ashamed that she was correct in her assertion. "Yes," he managed to say, "yes. I guess I do want Don to return to his old self, and I don't want to risk doing or saying anything that will prevent that from happening."

"You have to know it is too late to prevent changes in Don," she said in her gentlest voice, "your son may return to the Bureau, may lead a successful life, might even get past this and be happy until the day he dies- but he will _never_ be back to his old self again. Rape always changes a person; that is one fact consistent in every single case. If I said otherwise I would just be setting you both up for disappointment."

Alan nodded resignedly. "Okay, so what do we do? I still don't want to hurt Donny any more than necessary. It's already killing me as it is to see him laying there all broken up- inside _and_ out."

"Alan, there is no way to prevent the pain that is set to come, or try to bear it for him. All you can do is stay by his side and offer him your love and support while he makes his way through it- at his own pace and in his own time."

"So we shouldn't push him to say he was raped?" Alan sat forward and asked, hopeful once again that they could put it off, "We can wait until he decides he's ready to talk about it?"

"Yes and no, Alan," Dr. Wyndham answered, "We can't _make _him acknowledge the rape, but we can't just sit back and continue to let him make believe as if it never happened, either. Again, at this point I believe he is consciously choosing to ignore it; the fact that he is struggling very hard to suppress the worst memories of that evening was written all over his face when I interviewed him. He can't keep that fight up forever. At some point, he will lose the battle and his mind may decide to take over matters on its own, suppressing the memories of the rape or worse, separating itself from reality altogether so no aspect of it has to be addressed. Alan, the emotional and mental backlash _is_ going to come, but it will be worse if we let Don and his problems alone to fester. If we don't help him acknowledge what has happened to him _now_, it will be much harder for him to heal later- or he may never heal at all."

"Dr. Patel said almost those exact same words to me when they first brought Donny in," Alan told her, "I don't want to believe he won't recover from this."

Dr. Wyndham bent forward, peering intently at the elder man. "He can, Alan, he can recover. We just need to help him get started down that road because it's obvious he doesn't plan to do it on his own."

"Don's extremely stubborn; it'll be difficult to get him to move if he doesn't want to."

"I can be stubborn, too, Alan."

He looked intently at the doctor, took in her determined face. Yes, he thought, I believe you can. Fully putting his faith in her, Alan asked, "So, what are we going to do?"

"Well, Don has training in the characteristic behaviors victims of sexual assault exhibit, plus he has experience with handling them from some of the cases he has worked. I will use this to our advantage. I can point out those instances in which his behavior falls in line with someone who has been raped. Not tell him outright but subtly hint at it. I will also continue to use a more direct approach each time I interview him."

Alan scratched an earlobe. "How can I help?"

Dr. Wyndham opened her satchel, pulled out some pamphlets, and handed them over to Alan. "These describe some of the basic behaviors and emotions that have been observed in someone who has been raped. If you see Don exhibit any of these, then just ask him why he is acting or feeling that way. For example, if he appears anxious, ask him what is causing the anxiety. This will naturally make him think about circumstances that have occurred over the past couple days and, of course, that will lead him back to the rape. And the more often he has to think about the circumstances of the assault, the harder it will be to suppress his memories and deny it happened. At some point, he won't be able to hold out any longer and he'll have to admit it occurred- not necessarily to us, but at least to himself."

"What if it's too much for him and he does something…something drastic?" Alan asked with furrowed brows.

"Yes, I see where you would be concerned. Of course you would know better if Don is prone to suicidal tendencies..."

"A while back, his brother used an algorithm to determine that possibility. He said Don wasn't cut that way."

"Then he's a foot ahead in the game. Alan, you don't have to push him. Just don't reinforce the lies. And even when I'm not here with you, I promise, if anything happens I'm just a phone call away." She smiled soothingly. "Not to mention he's in a hospital- the staff is aware that he was assaulted and is thoroughly prepared to take care of him."

"As am I," Alan told her assuredly.

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"So, you're finally awake sleepyhead," a nurse smiled at Don as she entered his room. "I'm Nurse Evans. How are you feeling this morning?"

"My head hurts," Don reluctantly told her. He hated medicine, but the throb was too painful to ignore.

"Well, let's just take care of that." The middle-aged woman clicked a button near his IV and it wasn't long before the ache in Don's head began to fade. After stepping out for a moment, the nurse returned with a tray in her hands; she set it down on a table and raised his bed to a sitting position.

"This is breakfast?" Don asked politely as she maneuvered the bedside table in front of him. He peered at the bowl placed before him. "It looks less appetizing than usual."

"Oatmeal, sweetie," she replied, "thinned out so it'll be easier on your stomach and when you pass a stool."

Don stopped poking at the mushy substance with his spoon. "Why would they worry about that? I thought I just had a couple cracked ribs and a whole mess of scrapes and bruises." He shifted agitatedly.

Not wanting to upset her patient by discussing his assault, Nurse Evans deftly replied, "There was probably some other internal damage- _minor_, I would suppose, as there's nothing here about you needing surgery. If you're concerned, you can take it up with the doctor when he stops by later. Now, do you need help eating?"

"No," Don told her. The bandages on his hand were small, covering a couple minor scrapes. He had no problem using his fingers and set about taking a spoonful of oatmeal, albeit a small one as he was mindful that his throat was still sore and not wanting to aggravate it. But when the food hit his tongue, he gagged, barely swallowing. "Tastes awful," he complained, closing his eyes and putting his head back.

"Here, let me put a little brown sugar in it," Nurse Evans said gently, opening a small container set on the tray and mixing its contents into the oatmeal. "Try that, sweetie, while I go see about your sitz bath."

"My what?" Don opened his eyes and asked, but the nurse was already gone. He sighed, looked at the food distastefully, thinking he'd rather forego eating; but the emptiness of his stomach demanded he try a second time. Scooping up another spoonful, he slurped it, almost choking when it hit the top of his throat.

He'd never attempted to eat anything that tasted so foul. Don reached for his water glass and took a swig, giving a small moan when it passed the sore spot in his throat. He salivated, trying to clear his mouth of all the remaining oatmeal bits, running his tongue over his teeth, but unable to cleanse away the taste…

_I have something scrumptious for you_

Don trembled, squeezed his eyes tight and forced the undesired image from his mind. Many seconds ticked slowly past till he could open them again. Hungry but unable to continue eating, he angrily shoved the table away from him, the contents of the tray spilling with a crash to the floor.

Nurse Evans ran into the room.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Don crossed his arms and slid down on the bed, sulking. "I'm fine." When the nurse started to clean up, he realized what a big mess he'd made and said in a softer tone, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

"It's alright. Accidents do happen." Nurse Evans called for an orderly, who wiped the floor while the nurse left on an unexplained errand. Shortly, she returned with a large glass of supplement and a straw, which she handed to Don. "This might be easier to take."

Feeling bad about the trouble he was causing her, Don took it from her and immediately sucked in the liquid, noting it tasted no different from the oatmeal. Still, he was able to finish it quickly and after a swish of water in his mouth, it was if it had never been there. "Thank you," he said, truly meaning it.

"Your welcome, sweetie. Now, let's see about that bath." Nurse Evans went into the washroom attached to Don's hospital room.

Bath, Don thought hopefully as he scratched at his arm, it's about time I get cleaned up.

"Okay, sweetie, let me help you into the other room." Nurse Evans said when she returned to Don. She prepped the IV tree so it would be easily moved into the bathroom, readied the bed so Don could get out of it and then went to remove his catheter.

Don cringed, staring at her hands.

He hadn't noticed it before, couldn't imagine how it had slipped his sight, but there it was.

_Dirt. _

He first saw it when Nurse Evans lowered the railings on his bed. Just a little bit, a few particles stuck under her nails, nothing really at all. Then she pulled back his blankets and he stared at her fingers, could see earth caked along the ridges of her nails, a slight dusting of it smeared across the back of her hands.

_What the hell?!!_

Then she actually went to touch him and he could tell her skin was covered in it, could see the grease that painted in the lines on her palms, wrinkled his nose when he made out the creases of her knuckles that were filled in with black soot, a shiver running up his spine when he thought about those hands touching him.

_Those filthy, dirty hands._

"Stop!" Don spurted out, pulling back as far across the bed as he could.

Nurse Evans complied. "Something wrong sweetie?" She waited patiently, having had prior patients that were victims of sexual assault- the reason she'd been assigned to Don in the first place. From experience, she knew that being touched was something most victims could not abide. So she stepped back a foot and waited, wanting Don to tell her what he would allow her to do.

Ashamed for acting like a skittish rabbit, Don moved back into the middle of his bed. "I, uh, would…mmm… can I take my bath by myself?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't make myself clear- you're not taking a regular bath."

Instinctively, Don reached down and covered his body with the blankets. "Then what are you talking about?"

"I'll show you if you just let me help you into the bathroom." Nurse Evens approached Don slowly, took the tops of the blankets between her hands and pulled them down again, looking for a reaction from Don.

He sat quietly watching her, until she tried to remove his catheter.

"Wait!" he said, sliding up the bed. Nurse Evans stayed her hands and stood upright. "I want to know what it is before I get out of bed. M-maybe I don't want to take one."

"It's nothing major, sweetie. You just sit on this round plastic covering over the toilet, then a water and medicine mixture comes through an attachment with the sink and fountains up to clean your rectum. It's all very soothing. I promise it will make your bottom feel a hundred per cent better."

Don glared at her. Why would he need something like that? Unless Dr. Wyndham had convinced the hospital staff that he'd been raped- then they had probably prescribed him the sitz bath as a matter of routine. Well- to hell with all of them! He hadn't been raped and he didn't need treatment for it, either. Pointedly ignoring the sore heat coming from the exact area which Nurse Evans wished to treat, he tugged his blankets up tightly around him and stated with certainty, "I don't need a sitz bath."

"Well, I'm sure the doctor wouldn't have ordered one if you didn't. Now, please, let me help you." She stood there stoically waiting, immovable.

"Alright," Don told her at last, deciding she wasn't going to give up on him taking the bath. "But would you mind, uh, washing your hands first." At her quizzical gaze, he added, "Nothing personal, really, I'm just a stickler for clean hands."

Nurse Evans smiled, "No problem." She stepped to the bathroom sink and thoroughly washed her hands, standing sideways with the door open so Don could see her the whole time. When finished, she went to Don and allowed him to inspect them. Not caring what the woman thought, he did. Nodding in approval, he let her pull down the blankets once again, lift up his gown, and reach for his catheter…but that's as far as he'd allow her to go.

Because it was back, all of it. As improbable as it seemed to him, somehow the woman had dirtied her hands between his inspection and when she lifted his gown, and he couldn't let her remove the catheter, couldn't risk her passing that filth onto him, couldn't let her…

"Don't," he said sharply, "don't touch.."

Don stopped abruptly. He was aware of movement and from the corner of his eye saw his father and Dr. Wyndham enter the room. He clamped his mouth shut and laid still, his eyes narrowing at the psychiatrist while Nurse Evans threw the blankets over him so he was covered.

"Something wrong, Don?" Dr. Wyndham asked as she went to check his charts.

"No," Don said coldly.

"It sounded like you didn't want Nurse Evans to touch you?"

"No, I was just concerned that it would be painful to have my catheter removed."

"It shouldn't be," Dr. Wyndham said, looking for confirmation from the nurse, who nodded, "it's a Texas model- almost like a condom over the tip with a tube running out the end. Actually quite easy to slip off."

"I didn't know that," Don told her. He glanced at his father. "Are you staying?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course, Donny."

Alan frowned. It wasn't like Don to make a request for his father to stay with him in the hospital. Sure, they had been together many times in the past, all due to injuries Don had sustained on the job. But it had been Alan who insisted on coming, had been Alan who had stayed despite his son's assurances that it wasn't necessary; because if it there was one thing Don hated it was being fussed over.

This time, though, Don apparently wanted him here- _desperately_ from the look of his pleading face_-_ and it scared Alan. Of all the things Dr. Wyndham had talked to Alan about and all the injuries Dr. Patel had described to him, this single request bothered him the most.

"Well," Dr. Wyndham told the nurse, "now that we have that all cleared up, I'll let you go about your business." Turning towards Don, she said, "I'll be back in a couple hours for our second interview."

When she left, Don released a long breath of air. "I don't like that woman," he complained.

"She's trying to help you," Alan murmured, running his hand through Don's hair.

"Yeah, right into the looney bin," Don retorted.

Alan smiled. There was clearly some of his old Donny left in there.

"Excuse me," Nurse Evans interrupted, "really, he needs to have his treatment."

Don stared at her nervously. "Dad," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "could I talk to you alone for a few minutes?"

"Sure, Donny," Alan patted his son on the hand, briefly noting Don's eyes swung around to stare at the gesture and followed him as he got up to approach the nurse, requested the time alone. Nurse Evans nodded and left.

"Okay, Donny, what's wrong?" Alan sat on the bed and took Don's hand. He watched as Don stiffened and ran his eyes back and forth over his father's skin in some kind of inspection whose standards only Don knew, then relaxed in relief, apparently satisfied but for what reason Alan had no clue.

"Dad," Don said swallowing embarrassedly, "I-I don't want her taking care of me."

"Did she hurt you in some way, Donny?" Before coming to the room, Alan had perused the pamphlets Dr. Wyndham had given him, asking her questions as he read. Touch was one subject that had come up; Alan had known from documentaries he had seen on television, but the literature confirmed it- rape victims would often try avoiding the touch of others. Alan increased his grasp on Don's hand, wanting to be sure that his son wasn't bothered by his touch. Apparently, he wasn't.

"No, she…she seems nice. It's just," Don coughed, "she's not very clean."

"What?" Alan raised an eyebrow.

"She's not," Don argued, his words hurriedly slipping from his mouth, "and neither is this hospital. These sheets are filthy, or at least they didn't rinse them right, cause they feel all gritty, like there's detergent all over them and…and it's sticking to my skin."

Alan rubbed the blankets and sheets between his fingertips. He felt only smooth fabric.

Don continued, his irritation growing at his father's confused look, gesturing with his hand. "And what's the matter with the workers here? Just take a whiff- this whole room smells like urine. I thought it was my catheter bag at first, but it's empty. Obviously _someone _doesn't know what bleach or ammonia is."

Alan wasn't sure what to say. The room looked and smelled like a duplicate of all the other sanitized hospital rooms they'd ever been in.

"Donny, I don't smell anything, I really don't," Alan tried to calm Don down as it was clear his agitation was growing. "Maybe your senses are a little off because of your head injury."

"My senses my ass," Don huffed, "How do you explain that nurse? Look at her hands yourself and you'll see what I'm talking about. They're dirty." Before Alan could reply, Don added, "And I'm not stupid. I know Dr. Wyndham was trying to get me to say I don't want anyone to touch me. And I know why. It's because it's a common reaction after someone's been raped. Well, she's not going to put her words in my mouth. Look, you're obviously touching me and I couldn't care less." He ran his fingers along the back of Alan's hands as proof. "But that nurse…Who the hell wants dirty fingers prying all over them?"

"Donny, it's alright. Don't be upset. I'll ask her to clean her hands, okay?"

Suddenly, Don was silent, sweat beading at his temples. He couldn't tell his father he had already asked the nurse to wash her hands, had actually seen her do it with his own eyes. If he confessed that, his father would think he was going crazy and Don knew he wasn't. Though he had to admit, the entire situation was odd- he couldn't understand how her hands could be so dirty after she'd scrubbed them so hard. That old nurse is just sneaky, Don said to himself, she pretended to wash her hands; hell, she made a big production out of it so I couldn't complain later.

His father intruded upon his thoughts, softly asking, "Are you sure Dr. Wyndham's wrong about the reason you don't want the nurse to touch you?"

A far away look briefly passed over Don's eyes before he replied with a solid "yes".

"Okay, Donny, then let me get the nurse and I'll ask her to wash her hands. I'll even personally see to it that she does a thorough job."

Alan was halfway to the door when Don called to him. "Wait."

"Yes, Donny."

"Can't you…maybe you could take care of me."

Alan's eyes went wide with worry. This was not like his son at all. For him to fight the hospital staff about what treatments he was to have- definitely Don; for him to ask for his father's help- definitely not. _You're really hurting, aren't you? _Alan thought sadly. Not sure if it was the right thing to do but unable to refuse his son's plea, he told Don, "I'll help you with whatever they let me, but Donny, you're in a hospital for a reason. The doctors and nurses have to do some things for you."

Appearing too young and frightened to his father, Don quietly replied, "Fine, but only if you stay."


	10. Chapter 10

Charlie collapsed in the chair, pulling Amita down with him.

"Hi," he said as she stared up at him.

"Hi," she replied, rubbed her nose against his before pushing herself up and positioning her knees on either side of his legs, squishing their bodies between the arms of the chair, neither of them caring.

Their lips dipped together, Charlie grabbed Amita around the waist and stood up, walked her backwards to the more comfortable cushions of the couch, dropping to his favorite sprawled-out position with her lying on top of him, their lips and hands tenderly exploring each other.

A cell phone shrilled and Amita withdrew, balancing her elbows on Charlie's chest, reached towards the coffee table nearby. "Damn! It's Millie." She climbed off Charlie and went into his dining room, talking politely into the phone, buttoning the white dress shirt she had borrowed from Charlie, long legs sticking out underneath, bare.

Charlie looked after her longingly.

It was amazing what a few days alone had done for them- it felt like they were growing into a real couple. And he had forgotten how good it could be to live with a woman, his memories of the time he'd spent with Susan Berry long faded away. He loved being able to watch Amita wake in the morning, how erotic it was to see her shower and tend to her body, the delicious taste of coffee on her breath when they kissed over breakfast, the freedom she had to walk around the house in panties and bra, no worry that anyone would interrupt them.

Like my father, Charlie thought with a smile, wonder what he would think.

Or Don…

Charlie lost his smile.

He hadn't talked to him in nearly a week. Strange, Charlie thought, I have a beautiful woman half-naked in my house, nothing to disturb us but our own carnal desires (and Millie, he sighed), and here I am thinking of my brother. But he couldn't help it. They were with each other so often that having no contact between them left Charlie literally aching inside, as if a part of him had been torn off, the disconnection between them an open wound with only one salve.

Numbers, specifically those that comprised Don's cell phone number.

Wiggling around, Charlie managed to find his phone in the back pocket of his jeans, thanked God it was charged and pressed the speed dial that should patch him through to his brother.

No answer, phone not in service.

What else did you expect? Charlie asked himself. He was debating whether or not to call one of Don's team members to see if they had heard any news when a slender form slid up on top of him.

Amita snuggled her head against his chest.

"Millie wants me to do some project with her," she murmured into his shirt.

"Yeah," Charlie inquired, half hoping she'd accept. Then he would have time to figure out what he should do about Don, if anything.

"Yeah."

"So, what did you tell her?"

"I have something else I'm working on."

"You lied to our boss?" Charlie began rubbing the small of her back.

"No, not really a lie," Amita raised her head and kissed him. "I'd say it's accurate to call you something else."

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Alan collapsed in the chair, exhausted; threw off his shoes, dragged his shirt over his head and, after a whiff, contemplated whether or not he should try to bathe. Wasn't worth it, he decided, resting his head on the top of the hotel's easy chair and falling asleep, unable to make it to the bed.

He hadn't left Don's side in two days, caring for him in the few ways he was allowed and staying by him through everything else.

The sitz bath on day one had started well. He'd helped Don into the room, keeping Nurse Evans at bay while Don settled comfortably on the seat. Alan had sat down on a bathing chair the nurse kindly placed near the toilet and as he watched some of the stress leave Don's face from the pleasantry of the treatment, he had fooled himself into believing that things were improving.

Not for long.

Don's eyes went from sleepy and relaxed to glazed-over in a matter of a few minutes and Alan had to hold his arm to keep him from toppling over, feeling Don tremor under his grip.

Things had steadily deteriorated from there.

Alan had been allowed to dry Don off and help him to his bed. He'd fussed (just a little) over Don a few minutes, making sure the blankets were securely wrapped around him, further worried that Don didn't complain about his ministrations but had readily drifted off to a restless sleep.

Too restless.

By the time Dr. Wyndham returned to conduct a second interview, Don was swimming in sweat, the stress lines on his brow and face returned in depth.

It was heart wrenching.

From the start, the interview was impossible to watch. Dr. Wyndham offered her hand and Don took it, biting his lower lip with his shoulders squared, obviously stressed from the contact but unwilling to state there was a problem. Alan could only hold Don's hand in support when the interview started; silently ache while his son tried in vain to fight off Dr. Wyndham's questions, failing miserably each time. The elder man had to keep his face turned away, dig his nails into his knees and force his body to stay still, the desire to shove the woman aside and demand she leave so great that Alan had to physically hold it down. He'd leapt to his feet when she'd bid goodbye, run his hand over Don's head repeatedly to comfort them both.

The next day was worse.

Alan had slept on the recliner in Don's hospital room. He'd eaten sandwiches from the vending machine down the hall despite assurances from the nurses on duty that he could make a side trip to the cafeteria and they would take good care of his son. It didn't matter what they promised. Don had asked for him to stay and he had. Early in the morning, as he had the previous day, Alan watched while the troops marched in again and took care of Don, bandages taken off and not replaced as the abrasions, lacerations, and bite marks had begun to heal, scabbing over; skin gently cleansed and dried while another sedative kept his son oblivious to their work.

But he woke later.

Once Don realized he was free of but a few strips of gauze, he had lifted his gown to peak at the ravages done to his body. And upon seeing the recognizable shape of bite marks on his chest, slipped away from Alan once more, his eyes fixated on the table next to the bed, his mind lost somewhere unknown for over an hour.

Alan helped with all he could. Took Don to the bathroom and held him up so he could wash his hands, forcibly dried them for him when Don refused to touch the towels, fixing his meals so he could eat them quickly- a larger spoon snuck from the cafeteria so he could gulp whatever he was offered, several glasses of water to drown the taste, adjusting the bed, pillows and linen whenever requested or just because Alan needed something to do, wiping down Don's face and neck to free it from sweat, requesting a new gown at least once a day and helping him put it on.

And when Don was taken for x-rays to check for infections under the skin and the technician had to adjust his limbs and body for each picture, Alan let Don cling to his hand so tight he was left with bands of red around his fingers. Alan had to shake the feeling back into his hand in between each flash of the machine, reentered the room to let Don grasp his hand again. He repeated the actions once they were back in the regular hospital room: when the nurse removed Don's catheter for a final time, when she had to reinsert his IV, when Dr. Patel did a once-over to make sure all was healing well, when they took the bandage from his head.

He also continued listening to denials from his son that he didn't like to be touched, perplexed by the probing stares Don gave the hands of those around him, somewhat understanding of the behavior when Don complained about how dirty everyone was. But the whole thing disturbed Alan, because he didn't see any of the unseemliness of which Don claimed.

Dr. Wyndham's third interview was almost one-sided, a few monosyllabic answers from Don that indicated he hadn't heard any of the questions, that his mind was elsewhere.

"We can finish tomorrow, Don," she had promised, more to Alan and herself than to her patient. Alan had followed her from the room, desperate to get reassurances but the words she offered fell flat. After a short talk, he had returned to his son, noted the deepness of his slumber, and left, unable to be alone with him another second, feeling as if he himself were being dragged under with him and knowing he needed to stay afloat.

So he went to his hotel room for the first time in days and slept uncomfortably in the armchair, his body too tired to make any complaints.

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"Nothing else is bothering you, Don?" Dr. Wyndham asked.

"No," Don glared at her. "Nothing."

"Your father tells me you've been complaining about the hospital and its staff."

Don put his attention on his father with a look that tried to convey that he felt betrayed. Alan returned the look, unapologetic. "Maybe a little," Don told her, "but nothing to worry about."

"Are you sure there…"

"Yes," Don cut her off, stubbornly stating, "I don't want to talk anymore." He turned back to Alan with the childlike innocence his father was becoming familiar with, "Please?"

"Okay, Donny," Alan told him, smoothing his hair and bringing the blankets up to his chest. "I'll be back after I talk to Dr. Wyndham."

Once outside Don's room, the two walked towards their appointed destination but at the last moment Alan requested they go outside- "Need some fresh air." They took a shortcut that Dr. Wyndham knew from experience and exited out through the cafeteria doors, finding themselves in an enclave surrounded by towering ferns.

"I'm sorry, Michelle, but your questioning doesn't seem to be helping Don. He's only getting worse."

"Sometimes that has to happen before a person can get better."

"You mean it's always darkest before the dawn, something like that?" Alan leaned back in his chair and raised his legs, resting them on a small wrought-iron table. "So, when do we see the light?"

"Soon, I hope." Dr. Wyndham flipped open her agenda, read a few pages. "Alan, what I'm most concerned about are these hallucinations Don's having."

Alan dropped his feet to the ground and sat forward. "Hallucinations? What are you talking about?"

"Seeing dirt that isn't there and the sensation of particles clinging to his body; I'm not _too _concerned about these, as it is not uncommon for rape victims to feel as if they were unclean after having been raped. In time, they _should_ go away."

"So what are you concerned about?" Alan asked on edge.

"The olfactory and taste ones- those types are actually very rare. You told me that he was complaining that everything smelled like urine?"

"Yes, though I haven't found the source of the odor."

"Well, I think I have." Alan nodded for her to continue. "I talked to Lieutenant Walker, asked him to describe the alleyway in which they found Don and several things stand out: it was dark, impossible to see without the use of flashlights because no street lamps were nearby and the buildings surrounding it were abandoned; the ground was gritty, the air thick from brick dust- apparently parts of the warehouse walls had been crumbling for some time. Most importantly, he said people were obviously using the alleyway for a public bathroom- he told me the entire area smelled like urine."

"Oh," Alan said, "so he's remembering the smell from the night of the attack."

"Yes-as well as the dust and dirt on other people, his excuse for not wanting them to touch him, and the taste he can't get out of his mouth. All of these things are really memories from his assault that he can no longer keep from coming out."

Alan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I understand the dirt, and the urine makes sense. But he doesn't say his food tastes dry like dust- just foul."

Dr. Wyndham nervously ran a finger over the edge of her agenda. "He's probably thinking of something else. I'm sorry, Alan, but the abrasions at the top of his throat…I thought Dr. Patel had explained to you, had told you they had taken swabs…"

Alan stared at her, horrified as he realized what she was saying.

"…I'm afraid Don was raped in more ways than one."

Alan stood up, ran a hand across his suddenly dry mouth, wondering if he was going to retch.

Dr. Wyndham was quickly on her feet, beside him, rubbing his back. "Alan, we can't change the past and unfortunately, despite his best efforts to prevent its reappearance, it's coming up on Don real fast. These hallucinations, right now they're not fading away. If anything, they're becoming stronger. We talked about this before, that eventually Don wouldn't be able to lie to himself anymore. I think we're at that breaking point and you need to be near him- don't leave his side. Because when he crashes, he'll be crashing hard."

Alan nodded. "I better get back to my son."

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Don watched his father leave with Dr. Wyndham and then used the tip of his sheet to wipe the sweat away from his face.

Something was wrong.

With the situation, with what she told him, with the way he was feeling and acting; there was something wrong with everything.

When Don thought about the night he was attacked, bits and pieces of it burst into his mind; of being hit and pushed- shoved around, at some point his wallet being taken. The parts in between, though, were vague memories to him and for some reason he couldn't retrieve them straight on. It bothered him, the attempts to capture them tiring him out, knowing there had to be a reason for the mental block and wanting and needing to find some solution other than what Dr. Wyndham had suggested- _anything _else that might make sense.

At the moment, he blamed the drugs he'd been given, claimed they were affecting his memory, were the best explanation for everything that was happening to him-the reason he smelled and saw and felt and tasted things that weren't actually there. Don clung desperately to this solution, Dr. Wyndham's continual suggestions that it might be that other thing grating on his nerves.

But he couldn't say her claims were completely without merit.

He knew he felt unclean, that it was a common feeling rape victims had afterwards, sometimes for months…

Don threw his blankets off, licked his lips nervously, and then slowly slipped his hands under his gown, running them along his body, feeling the thin scars and thicker scabs marking him, the sensation of being filthy and diseased rising the further he explored.

The hospital staff, he thought, the crummy hospital staff was the reason he felt this way, sandy granules all over his skin and slick greasy sweat clogging his pores, his body never properly cleansed by the nurses who snuck into his room each morning and did their half-ass job.

His eyes traveled to the bathroom, searching for the solution, convinced he'd found it.

Maybe it wasn't the aftereffects of the drugs. Maybe if he could just take a proper shower, take care of himself, have control over how it was done, all of these feelings would go away and he'd stop imagining things, would know what was real and what wasn't, would remember everything that happened that night so he could prove to Dr. Wyndham he hadn't been raped, prove it to his father and get his support against the doctor…

And I'll be back to normal again, Don thought yearningly, normal.

Don checked the door to his room; nobody around. He was sure his father and Dr. Wyndham would be gone for a while, long enough for him to steal into the bathroom and take a quick shower, long enough to thoroughly cleanse himself of these awful feelings and doubts. After carefully swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat still, looking at the IV still inside the back of his hand.

Don hated needles.

But he hated the dirty way he felt more.

He grasped the base of the needle between two fingers and closed his eyes, pulling straight out until he felt it was free, dropping it to hang. He wheezed a few minutes before he got his breathing under control, then stood up, headed to the bathroom, walked into the shower stall.

Don turned the knobs, kept his other hand under the water until a hot spray was shooting from the showerhead. There was nothing about him to use to bathe, so he improvised, pressing the lever on the hand soap container connected over the sink, messily filling both his palms and then carefully padding back to the shower, stood in front of the water, smeared the slippery, cool liquid over his body, began to rub his skin with his fingers, working the soap into a lather.

Water poured against his chest and dripped down his legs.

Irritated, the languid cleansing motion that he was using began increasing in severity because the skuzzy feeling that afflicted every last inch of him failed to go away.

_Please._

Panic rose through Don; unable to free himself of all impurities he concentrated on those portions of his body where he felt most sullied, his fingernails carving around the deadened skin circling his right nipple then dropped down to his inner thighs, hard rubs turning into ragged scrubs and nails angled so they drove into still-healing wounds, tearing, tearing, as manically Don tried to free himself of the impure sensation that was dwelling just under his skin, mockingly refusing to leave, affixed to him stronger than any leech and he closed his eyes, stepped forward under the water, reaching to turn the knobs all the way to hot, wanting to burn the rancid feeling from his flesh…

And the water fell on his head like raindrops, plop, plopping.

A flash of light behind his eyelids and Don threw his eyes open, jumped back, startled, the room beginning to spin, dizzy.

_Please._

Anger and fear and frustration, tears at his inability to fix himself, cleanse away what was tainting him- his mind, his body, his soul, blood and pain between his legs and with uncontrolled fury he smacked an open palm flat against the wall, heard the crack.

Don watched.

The tile under his hand began to break, at first into a few pieces.

Then a chain began to form, the tiny fractures moving out from under his palm and threading outwards, crawling, from one tile to the next like a creeping weed, spidery splits in the tile spreading across the entire length of the wall, up over the ceiling and down to the wall opposite, thin lines pushing forward and bending the corner to cover the wall on his left, one last corner and then they were driving over the wall behind him, meeting the cause of it all, his palm.

He couldn't move, was afraid the room was going to cave in on him.

Every tile in the room was shattered, all of the fragments held together by Don's sheer force of will.

But then he breathed.

Tremors shook through the room, splintered tiles tumbled, little by little, larger pieces pushed outward and plunged down, their momentum of weight clanging loudly, without warning the drain in the middle of the floor began opening wider and wider, the gaping mouth slowly sucking the broken tiles in deep, pieces of white powdery particles drifting to the floor, dust filling Don's lungs and he couldn't catch his breath, portions of the wall continuously peeling away, revealing black, greasy bricks beneath, swirling air ripping upwards in a vortex to tear away the last remnants of the small white tiles, a long suction sound as the remains of the shower stall were pulled into the hole and then all was deathly still.

Everywhere it was dark, pitch black, the drizzle of rain quietly drumming.

A slim thread of light breeched the blackness before Don, beaming down from above, affording little illumination.

A slim thread of moonlight through which raindrops shimmered; Don cowered, wet, against the rough wall of the warehouse behind him.

_Please._

Voices, four of them, floating from somewhere nearby, but Don couldn't see. He reached forward, tried to get into the moonlight but was pushed to his knees from behind, caught himself with his hands, tried to get up but they were on him, millions of hands all over him, dirty, filthy, soiled, _unclean,_ holding him down and touching him, they were touching him, pushing into him, scratching him, and the pain…the pain because they were in him, shredding every last ounce of sanity from him and he wanted to scream, tried desperately but they were in his mouth and his throat and he gagged and he choked and couldn't get any air, suffocating, his chest bursting from the effort to breathe.

_Please!_

The smell of urine, the feeling of grease, the dust that lay all over him, gritty particles sandpapering his skin, and the burning of his flesh and hair, searing pain, he threw himself back, arched away from them, thrashed his head back and forth to force them out of his mouth, limbs moving wildly to push them away.

"Donny!"

Arms binding him tightly and he couldn't move, snapped his teeth and finally screamed.

"_Donny!"_

Moonlight brightening, the darkness slowly dissipating, his father's face appearing, white walls of the shower, male and female nurses standing and kneeling nearby, concerned, readied, his father sitting with him halfway in his lap, wrapping him in his strong embrace, gently rocking him, tears and water drops on the older man's face.

"It's alright, Donny. You're safe."

Moments sliding by, calming, released, hospital personnel reaching to aide.

Don shoved Alan aside, thrust himself into the corner of the shower, trying to hide his naked body, huddled in a ball, covered his face with his arms in despondent shame, hospital personnel reaching out hands to stop the flow of blood from freshly-opened wounds.

"_Don't touch me,_" Don quietly cried, _"Please…d-don't touch me._"


	11. Chapter 11

"Alan, we need to talk."

"Famous opening line," Alan wearily commented to Dr. Wyndham. He had been waiting outside Don's room for nearly twenty minutes. She had been inside, conducting a personal conversation she insisted she needed to have with her patient. Apparently, she was finished, so Alan walked down the hall with her to the vending machines, grabbed a cup of coffee and sat with her at a table in a small lounge nearby.

"Don is set to be released tomorrow," she began.

"I know," Alan stated flatly. He had no emotions to spare- the last week had drained them all.

"You are probably aware that he is in no condition to go home."

"I know, but they won't keep him here."

"No, Alan, they won't. Physically, the rest of his treatments can be done on an outpatient basis. As far as Dr. Patel is concerned, Don is fit to go home."

Alan dragged on his coffee, thinking about this assessment. How does one really determine fit? Under the current circumstances, Alan would find it difficult to use that word in describing Don, though it was true that his physical state _had_ improved, but only because they had tied up his mental one-literally. After the flashback Don had experienced in the shower, Alan had been able to talk him back into his room and once there, stepped back while he was sedated, several nurses sympathetically cluck-clucking at the damage Don had done to himself, torn wounds on his legs and fresh scratches gouged in his chest, Dr. Patel coming in and deciding restraints were in order when Don was alone, asleep or taken care of by others, Alan arguing against their use but later realizing it had been pointless.

Don didn't care.

After that initial incident, Alan had watched his son lying listlessly in bed for almost a week. Don rarely spoke, most often only when someone approached and he bluntly told them not to touch him, closed his eyes and requested they not look at him when lifting his gown to check his body, unable to stop them because of the restraints around his wrists and ankles- but never really complaining when they continued at their task, as if everything that had been done to him, including the rape, was all his fault and he deserved such treatment, to be poked and prodded against his will.

His mind protested, though.

Flashbacks are not untypical when someone experiences severe trauma, Dr. Wyndham had informed Alan; it is his mind's way of telling Don that it is time for him to process all that happened and face the truth head-on so he can heal.

Flashbacks are a natural part of that healing, she'd further stated, warning- Don may have more.

And he had.

Terrifyingly explicit, his son lost in that alleyway of days before. Once on the x-ray exam table when the technician attempted to get a fresh set of pictures and adjusted his gown out of the way, another time when lotion was applied to a rough patch of skin and even though Alan had been the one to touch him, a last time while Don was holding a glass of water to drink- his eyes glazing over and he was gone, Alan snatching the glass before it shattered on the floor, unable to do the same for his son's mental stability, soothingly touching and whispering him back to the here and now-

_please_

but only after Don had been too far gone into the reoccurring trauma, Alan cradling his head when it ended and wondering how in hell this torture was healing his son, Don left exhausted and curling into a fetal position, ashamed at the occurrence and his obvious lack of mental control.

There were also the bouts of anxiety.

Don startled when someone entered the room unannounced. He shivered when they had to leave the room for x-rays, hiding beneath the blankets as far as he could- not willing to risk being touched. Gripped his father's shoulder and leaned against him when he was once again allowed to use the bathroom on his own, shaky because he was forced to daily confront the damaged skin between his legs and the burns on his groin just so he could meet his body's basic needs; the slight tremors of his hand when he ate, fearful he'd do something to set his mind reeling once again.

And then there were the nightmares…Alan viewed them as underhanded flashbacks, sneaking in on his son when he could least resist them.

More than once, Alan thanked God for sedatives.

"Alan, we need to discuss where we go from here."

The elder man was brought back to the present, ineffectually shook loose his previous thoughts.

"Do you know what its like to watch your son raped over and over again?" Alan bluntly asked her, "To be able to do nothing but offer worthless platitudes while he begs and pleads for you to make his assailants stop?"

Dr. Wyndham appraised Alan's appearance. He looked older, having aged at least ten years since the first time she'd met him, his clothes wrinkled and worn, shoulders drooping. Worn, she thought, so many people I work with are so worn. "No," she said at last, "I don't."

"Why can't you give him something to make them go away? There must be some kind of medication…" Alan's eyes rimmed with tears, the last remains of his emotional storage brimming over the edge; he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

"There are better methods to handle his flashbacks. But even if I consider medication in the long run, I'm limited with what I can do for now because Don's mind is still adjusting, trying to come to grips with the trauma; I can't say what medication, if any, would help him because I need to wait and see how his mind settles. I'm sorry, but it does take time to make a proper psychological diagnosis. And then there's the matter of the antiretroviral pills he is taking and will continue to do so for another two and a half weeks. They can interfere with other medications, so if I prescribed something else we wouldn't really know if the meds or its specific dose was truly effective or not."

Alan gripped his handkerchief in his hand. "I-I guess I was hoping there was an easy solution. I didn't think it would get this bad. Donny's always been so strong, you know."

"You told me Don was showing signs of depression before the assault?"

"Yes, his brother and I were concerned. It's why we tried to reach him the night of my party."

"His prior problems could be contributing to his current state of mind. Maybe his emotional fortitude was on the verge of breaking down and the assault was more than the straw that broke the camel's back- it was more like a truckload of bricks. And unfortunately, Don is still buried beneath."

"So what do you suggest?"

"I think Don should sign himself into a private hospital so he can receive the professional care he needs."

Alan froze. "Institutionalized? Donny said you were trying to put him in the loony bin but I didn't take him seriously."

Dr. Wyndham bit her tongue. She hated when people used those kinds of terms to refer to mental institutes. "Not a loony bin," she said, keeping her own irritation in check but it was written on her face, "a private hospital."

"I didn't mean to be offensive," Alan said gruffly, "it's just so surprising to hear you suggest Don be committed, especially since you keep reassuring me a lot of what he's going through will pass."

"It can, but there are no guarantees about anything we have discussed. I just try to remain optimistic this early in the game."

"Optimistic? Locking Don away is your definition of optimistic?"

Dr. Wyndham assured him, "Don will be free to come and go as he pleases."

"It's still an institute any way you look at it."

"Well, I'm looking at it as the best option for Don."

"Okay," Alan said obstinately, leaving no doubt as to which parent from whom his son got that particular stubborn trait, "then convince me."

"Well, it _is _an actual hospital. Don will have his own room, there will be nurses on duty to keep an eye on him, provide him with any basic care he needs and bring him his meals if he wants. He can also receive medical treatment right there instead of having to go to another facility."

"Go on," Alan said, starting to warm to the idea.

"Don needs intense therapy, Alan. You can see for yourself that he doesn't want to do anything- I can barely get him to answer simple yes-and-no questions. The therapist I am assigning to him is on staff at this hospital and has access to an office a few hallways from where Don's room will be, so it will be easier to get him to his appointments."

"You won't be Don's doctor anymore?" Alan asked worriedly. He wasn't sure all of these changes would be good for his son.

"Oh, no- I mean, yes, I will be his psychiatrist. But I'm like the overseer of his recovery process; I'll be coordinating all of the help he needs, physical and mental, but I won't be providing him therapy. Don will have two people working with him on that- one who will provide him individual therapy and another who runs a group session."

Alan played with his coffee cup, tearing bits of Styrofoam from its top edge. It did make sense for Don to be hospitalized- at least for a while. He barely moved, only did so when Alan told him to, responded to very little around him, his eyes sunken in, like there was nothing behind them to prevent them from sinking through to the pillow, as if Don was wasting away from the inside out. If it took so much effort just to get Don to do basic things like eat and use the restroom, Alan could not imagine how he would be able to get him to bathe and dress, to get out to the car and then get him back out again once they drove to their destination, to make him walk into a building and participate in therapy, then home again and all that he'd have to be made to do there.

It seemed like everyday activities had suddenly become impossible feats for Don to perform.

"Will I be able to see him?" Alan asked.

"Everyday if you want," Dr. Wyndham responded, "and if Don wants, which I'm sure he will. He can have any visitors during the assigned hours and you can stay over at night."

Visitors, Alan thought, who would Don want to see?

_No one._

Alan had thought about his youngest son before the week had ended, had asked Don if it would be alright to call him and ask for his help. Don had not said a word, so Alan took advantage of the quietude and went to call, wanting Charlie's presence more than he could have supposed. But he never made it out the door. It was one of the few times that Don spoke to him without provocation.

"Don't, Dad, please- I-I'll die if he knows."

After looking at the pallid coloring of Don's face, Alan had taken him at his word and never broached the subject again.

Dr. Wyndham began speaking. "Alan, have no doubts- this facility is _very _nice. The Bureau often uses it when one of our men is having great difficulties, which is why it has already approved Don's placement there. And speaking of which, Kelly- I mean, Dr. Saunders- she's the psychologist who I've requested to see Don individually; well, like me, she's with the Bureau. She'll be using an office the government pays the hospital to keep for us. This will make Don's transition back to his job that much smoother later on; he'll be able to keep her as his therapist when he's released and have easy access to her because her main office is on a middle floor of the Bureau building."

Alan tried to think of an objection, but none came to mind. He finally told Dr. Wyndham his main worry. "But will he be _safe_?"

"His safety is one of my greatest concerns. These flashbacks he's having are intense- at the hospital, there will be someone nearby to care for him when they occur, to prevent him from getting hurt. At night, we can continue to give him a sedative and use the restraints if need be."

"Sounds like a plan, I guess," Alan conceded, "though I don't know if you'll be able to sell Donny on the idea. He hates hospitals."

"That issue has already been resolved," Dr. Wyndham replied.

"You mean you're forcing him to go?" Alan questioned, irate.

"No, I mean Don has already agreed to go. He signed the papers when we were talking alone."

Alan's eyed her suspiciously. "I don't believe you- let me see." Dr. Wyndham pulled the requested papers from her satchel and showed them to Alan, whose face withered before he stated, "He must really be hurting to have signed these without a fight."

Dr. Wyndham made no comment on his remark. "Don will be released from here in the morning. After that, you can drive him to Mercy Hospital on your own if you want, help him get settled in."

"Yes, I'd like that. Will he need anything?"

"Underclothes, shoes- he's allowed to wear his own; toiletries- no straight razor edges, or anything else that that could be used as a weapon, of course. If he likes to read, you can bring some magazines. He'll have a TV and DVD player in his room, so you might want to bring him movies to watch. Usually we suggest snacks, but since he's not too interested in eating…well, I wouldn't worry if I were you. Anything you forget you can always bring later."

"You wouldn't happen to know a good hotel nearby the place?"

"As a matter of fact," Dr. Wyndham beamed, "I made reservations for you at the one associated with the hospital- it's connected to it by a breezeway. You'll only be a short walk from Don."

"Thank you," Alan said while reaching to shake her hand, "I may not always voice it, but it's there in everything I say."

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Alan parked the car, climbed out and went around to the opposite side, opening Don's door, unclasped the seatbelt from around his son and had to lightly tug at his sleeve to get him to move. Then the elder man yanked a small suitcase from the backseat of the car, clipped open its long handle, and dragged it behind him, pulling Don along with.

Mercy Hospital looked nice enough. It was a large complex of buildings circled around a main hub, a three-story manila limestone one set at the furthest edge being the Eppes' destination. Once inside, Alan presented Don's papers and then was directed to take a seat, which they did.

Don kept his eyes on the floor, bending into his father when anyone came near, Alan keeping a firm clasp on his arm, comforting.

"Don Eppes," a nurse called and they rose, followed her through a corridor at the end of which was a desk, a nod between the nurse and receptionist before they went through a set of glass doors. Alan noted the names of doctors on the brown, nondescript doors that they passed, the hallways that went off on either side of them several times before they came to an elevator, rode it to the second floor, exited out in front of another desk, this one more ominous than the previous as the receptionist was hidden behind a tall counter, shielded from others by thick panes of glass and a low encasement of steel surrounding her entire work area, the door leading to the floor impenetrable.

"Yes," she said, speaking through a microphone.

"Don Eppes, to be admitted," the nurse told her, slipping his papers into a slit. After a quick perusal of the forms, the receptionist typed on her computer several minutes and then returned them shortly thereafter, along with a clipboard that the nurse handed to Alan and Don. "Sign here, Don- and Mr. Eppes, right here. Whenever you come and go, you must sign in and out." The nurse took a thin strip of plastic from under the clipboard edge and asked Don if she could put it on him. Alan interceded, wrapping it around Don's wrist and fastening it as directed. A name badge was filled out then given to Alan and he clipped it on.

The receptionist shoved a huge metal drawer out along the floor. "Put your suitcase in here and empty out your pockets."

They did as they were told, Don moving slow, emotionlessly. The receptionist thoroughly checked Don's suitcase, putting several things aside and saying, "You can pick these up on the way out." When finished, she pushed the drawer back out with the suitcase inside. While Alan recovered it, the woman spoke to Don, "Shoelaces."

Don didn't respond.

"What about them?" Alan asked the nurse.

"Take them out of his shoes- no drawstrings or shoelaces allowed."

Alan bent to a knee, ignored the creak he heard and started to undo Don's shoes, not wanting to think about why they didn't want ropelike items in this section of the hospital, or what his son could do with something like that if he became so depressed he no longer wanted to live.

When Alan had both strings out of Don's shoes, he handed them to the nurse, who placed them in the still-open drawer. The receptionist pulled it towards herself, nodded at the contents, then buzzed them in, saying sweetly, "Nice to meet you, Don."

Alan led his son through the thick, glass door, concerned. "I thought Don could come and go as he pleases?" he asked the nurse while they walked, his eyes noting the thickly-built orderlies roaming the place. "This reminds me of a prison."

"No, no, no," the nurse replied, "prisons are to protect the people outside of them- all of our security is to protect the people inside. Think about it- if anybody could just walk in here, it would be easy for them to take advantage of our more severe patients."

"I guess that makes sense," Alan said, still unsure.

Sensing Alan's disbelief, the nurse proceeded to confess, "Okay, I guess I should also tell you that not all of our patients were freely committed. Some of them came here only after a court ordered them to be sent. But they're no threat to anybody but themselves, so you don't have to worry about any harm coming to your son. Violent patients go to another hospital altogether."

Great, Alan thought sarcastically, that makes me feel a _whole _lot better.

The nurse stopped at a door and entered through it, Alan and Don not far behind her. It was a standard hospital room, small dresser against the wall and an attached bathroom with just a toilet, mirror, and sink.

"Don will have to be supervised when he bathes, you know, because of his issues with water," the nurse explained, "we have a private shower he can use down the hall, but someone with have to be with him when he does."

A recliner sat in the corner, and just like the one that had been in his previous room, it could be opened out to a narrow, uncomfortable bed. A plasma TV was bolted high up on the wall, easily viewed from anywhere in the room, a DVD player sitting in a niche underneath. There were no bars on the single window- Alan made sure to check. But he could see the glass was reinforced with wire mesh weaved throughout it, that the seemingly painted wood separating the panes was actually steel, and there was no way to open the window up.

Alan was relieved. No way for someone to throw themselves from this window. Not that he worried Don was suicidal- but still…

Don sat on the bed, silent.

The nurse went to the dresser and pulled out a set of pajamas- light blue pants bottoms and a button-up top, along with a pair of thick slippers. "You'll need to change and though you're allowed to wear your tennis shoes, most patients find slippers more comfortable. Call me when you're done and I'll take you on a tour of the place."

After she left, Alan coaxed Don to change clothes, helping him pull on his pants as it was difficult for him to bend all the way over, drag his shirt on, keeping his eyes away from the letters still apparent on Don's back, never having been able to keep his eyes on them long. Finally lifted Don's feet and slid them into the slippers, stood up, brushed his son's hair back so it stood straight up, stylish.

"Let's go see what they've got to offer."

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Don lay in bed, waiting for the nurse to bring him his sedatives so he could sleep; it had been a part of his nightly routine for over the past week. He could hear his father breathing behind him, feel the weight of his body pulling down the mattress as he sat on the edge of the bed- and Don hated knowing that if his father hadn't been there, it would be impossible to be feeling as safe as he did.

Don waited.

It seemed that it was all he did lately.

Waited for things to go back to the way they were, when he didn't feel the way he did now.

But nothing changed.

Not what happened to him, not how he felt, not the scars on his body, not him.

They all stayed the same.

Don shifted on the bed, unconsciously moving closer to his father on the opposite side of the bed.

He'd met his therapist, a pretty young woman named Dr. Saunders. She had seen him the first day he'd been committed, had been the final stop in the tour their nurse had given them…

"This is our cafeteria," the nurse had showed him and his father. "We serve three meals a day, but if you want snacks, there are vending machines available between six a.m. and ten p.m."

She'd next led them down a hall to a large room filled with cardboard tables, reclining chairs, and overstuffed couches, a big screen TV set up on the right side of the room, the center of attention for most of the room's occupants, patients and orderlies alike.

"This is the community room," she told them, "board games are on the shelf in the back of the room. Afraid we don't have video games- most of them are too violent."

His father had nodded approvingly.

They were shown the room where he would be allowed to bathe, introduced to several nurses, walked past the meeting place for his group sessions. "They start tomorrow," the nurse had said.

And then Dr. Saunders at last, a short session with her as way of introduction though their regular ones were scheduled to be longer- to last an hour, twice daily. They started the next day, too, though thus far, Don hadn't participated. He'd gone, but only because his father took him there by the arm and he couldn't muster the energy to resist.

So he went, sat in the room, and listened. Or, at least, he pretended to.

Sat waiting for the woman to solve his problems, to make them go away. But she didn't and they didn't, so all he could do was to sit and wait.

Wait why his father talked to him, quietly tried to get him to go to his group session.

A task Don had found the energy to resist, sitting immovably in his seat, knowing he couldn't risk being around other people, risk being out of his room too much, risk doing some unknown thing that would inadvertently loosen the weak controls he had left on his mind, cause him to be dragged back to that alleyway whose mouth lay gaping open along every corridor, invisible to his senses until it was ready to appear at its own discretion, waiting for him to drop in.

Or so it seemed.

The nurse entered Don's room, set down a small container with two pills and a cup filled with water, a straw sticking out its top. Don felt his father's weight lift from the bed and then the older man was before him, handing him the pills and holding the water while he sipped enough to swallow, a warm hand to his head.

Don closed his eyes, feeling his father tuck the blankets tightly around him in a safe cocoon.

And like a butterfly waiting to be born, Don waited to change.

Sadly, waited in vain.


	12. Chapter 12

"Doughnut?"

"No thanks."

"Twinkie."

"No thanks."

"How about a Moon Pie? Nobody resists a Moon Pie."

David caved, held out his hand and took the treat, carefully opening it up to avoid a mess, sighing two seconds into eating it because a mess was clearly unavoidable, decided to hell with it and chomped it down in a few bites while brushing the crumbs from his shirt, memories dancing in his head of a penny candy store down the street from his house, crummy drugs and whores sold round back.

But, ah, that first-rate candy.

"So," the squat, older man sitting next to him asked, "what dire deed did you commit to justify this assignment?"

David swashed some coffee into his mouth, trying to melt the remains of marshmallow stuck between his teeth. "Nothing."

Officer Brian Carson barked a loud laugh. "Ri-ight."

"I'm serious, man," David tried to argue.

"Come on," Carson said through a mouthful of jelly doughnut, "you didn't take one look at this assignment and know your butte was in the doghouse?"

"No," David said, his voice frosting over, "on paper, I was supposed to be supervising all of the investigators on a weapons trade case."

"Hah," Carson laughed heartily, "supervising all of me."

David rolled his eyes. How could he argue? For almost three full weeks, that's what it boiled down to: him and Carson, team dynamite.

He had been excited at first. That was to be expected considering past experience. David loved working with Don and the opportunities his boss gave him to show what a good investigator he was. And any and all contributions David made to a case, Don was sure to note them in his reports. David knew this for sure- he always checked. So when Merrick had handed him this assignment, he thought it was a sort of reward for all the hard work he'd been doing, all the praise Don had given him for past cases, maybe a trial run to make him a permanent liaison with the LAPD.

It turned out to be nothing of the sort. In the end, David felt like he had been sent on a wild goose chase, no goose in sight, no chase.

Yes, he groused to himself, this assignment is that bad.

No investigators assigned to the case save one Brian Carson, one month (now one week) away from retirement, policeman so old he still spoke about the race riots of the sixties and seventies as if they'd happened yesterday. Which was sadly the only bright spot in David's daily routine; listening to the man describe Watts from an "I-was-there" perspective was almost worth having to sit in a hot, smelly car hours at a time.

Almost, but not quite.

Another reason the case sucked big time- nothing to investigate. One small-time gangsta wannabe sold some weapons from the back of his truck. After he was picked up, the LAPD had mistakenly run crap they had taken from the cab of the truck through a series of forensic tests. What they found were a few chemicals on Homeland Security's watch list of ones that could be used to make weapons favored by terrorist factions. Once alerted, Homeland checked it out and disregarded the materials, saying they had been found in such a small trace amount they didn't warrant further investigation.

For some reason, the Bureau thought they did, so David was handed the case, along with Carson and a pile of fancy-looking LAPD paperwork that in essence contained the same conclusion as Homeland- chemicals found in many households, give it up.

After researching for two days, David had his own fresh stack of paperwork indicating further investigation was pointless, went to hand it to Merrick and was told, to his surprise, to stay on it.

Almost three weeks later, all he could do was stake out the gangsta wannabe's place and hope for the best.

The best had never come.

A few fancy cars were scattered throughout the neighborhood, squatting in front of desolate homes, the whole thing giving the appearance that something untoward (and illegal) was going on somewhere, but neither David nor Carson saw any sign of what it could be.

As far as they were both concerned, they were playing a waiting game; David waiting on Don's return, Carson on retirement- the former more anxious than the latter.

"So, when you going back to the Bureau?" Carson asked.

"Hopefully," David answered, "by the beginning of next week."

"What happens next week? The Bureau forgives everybody on a set day of the month?"

"Funny," David grunted. "No, my boss is supposed to be back by then. Though, he could be longer."

"What'd he do?"

"Nothing, Carson, he'll just be…incommunicado till then."

"Oh." The old man was quiet, eyes lowered as he thought. "That why they sent you here- cause your boss was put out of commission?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," David sighed again. He didn't think he should be discussing what little he knew of Don's assignment.

"Sorry to hear that," Carson said, sounding sincere, "And for my earlier remarks. I naturally thought this nothing-case was assigned to you as punishment, seeing as you're an up-and-coming young agent. Guess they really thought you needed a break, time to clear your head."

"Huh?" David turned to look at the cop, surprised the old man had a look of pity on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Your boss…the real reason why you're here."

David was starting to get a sinking feeling in his stomach. "What about him, Carson?"

The old man looked confused. "Maybe I'm wrong…"

"Just tell me," David demanded, "what you think you're wrong about."

"It's the timeline- you know, been about three weeks since that feebie got a number done on him over near Whittier Boulevard. Figured that's what you meant by your boss being out of commission, that it was the reason they gave you this cushy assignment."

David swallowed, anxiously trying to recall if he'd heard any rumors when he'd visited the Bureau office. No, nothing, nobody had whispered a word about an agent getting attacked. And if one had, it couldn't have been Don because David had been at the office on and off for the past few weeks, and he hadn't received any of those weird looks they only gave you when one of your partners had been shot- _or worse_.

"Carson, wh-where'd you hear this?"

"My son works the beat over that way. Said he heard it come over the radio- some guy had received a rough going-over by some gang members."

"What makes you think it was a fed?"

"It's been drifting around the police house- hear they got the case all locked up, nobody allowed to peek."

"Doesn't make sense," David murmured, "if an agent had been attacked, it would be federal jurisdiction- someone at the Bureau would have been assigned the case."

_And as soon as that happened, everybody in the department would know about it- just look at how fast we found out Don's true assignment…_

Wrong.

David realized it was all wrong. They had heard about it way too fast for one thing, and then there was Merrick. It wasn't his style to be so forthcoming with information even if the rumor about Don's participation in a covert operation had been true.

_If-_

_Dammit, I'm saying if._

"Where'd you say this happened?" David asked Carson.

"Whittier Boulevard…"

"That's a really long street," David snapped.

"Sorry. Hmm, let me think. Oh, yeah, it was near that new redevelopment area. Think the only thing around is a bar…what's it called…Technician? Technical?"

"Technos?" David asked, feeling thoroughly ill.

"Yeah, that's it." Carson nodded. "Ever been there?"

"No." David replied. _But I've passed it on my way home quite a few times…on my way home from Charlie's. _

"Sorry to have brought it up," Carson said.

"Don't worry about it." Adding, "By the way, you're wrong about it being my boss. Guess this assignment is some sort of punishment after all."

"Glad to hear that- well, about your boss."

"Yeah. Listen, I think we've been sitting here long enough- what do you say to us clocking out?"

Carson grinned. "Fine with me."

David sped to Carson's station as quickly as he could, dumped the old cop off- "Just leave it, I'll clean the mess later"- drove up the street and parked.

He clicked open his cell and hit speed-dial-one before his engine had completely stopped.

"Colby, hey partner, how's it going? Yeah, not much better for me." He listened to Colby gripe a few minutes before cutting him off, "Look, are you busy tonight? It's important- I want to check something out…When's Megan get back?...Really? What time her plane get in?...Okay, I'll give her a call and see if she wants me to pick her up, maybe bring her along...No, better meet somewhere outside the Bureau- you know, why don't we see if Charlie's busy. He has access to that charged-up computer at CalSci- perfect for what I want to look into…Will he do it? Hell yeah- I guarantee he'll be interested."

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"What did he say it was about?" Amita asked Charlie as she stood in the doorway of his office.

"He didn't, just insisted he needed my help." Charlie set his laptop on his desk and turned it on. "I haven't helped out the Bureau for so long I felt I couldn't say no."

Amita walked over to the seat opposite Charlie and sank into it, unhappy. She had loved being with Charlie for the past few weeks, it had been unbelievably fantastic: starting off with a bang by making love every night, slowing down the pace when their obligations to CalSci required them to, spending the last four days in San Francisco, a spur of the moment trip Charlie had conceived because he wanted things to be perfect between them.

"Just like you," he had told her in the moonlight, standing on the balcony of their hotel room, their view of the bridge incomparable.

Now there were only a few more days left before Don was supposed to be back in L.A. and she had hoped to spend them with Charlie, come up with some way to thank him for the delicious trip. Those plans were ruined, though, when David had requested Charlie's services and she knew it would be impossible to pull him away once they began to work. It was selfish of her, she would easily admit that. But she was frightened that once things returned to normal the previous distance between them would return, that Charlie would be lost in his work, in his numbers, and be unable to see what pain it caused her when he blocked her out of his life, how so much of the time he spent on his work was time spent away from her.

Once Charlie began working again, would what was between them go back to the way it had been; _were _things between them really changed?

As if reading her thoughts, Charlie stopped what he was doing and came around the desk, sitting on its edge facing her and taking her hands between his own.

"If you'd rather I didn't, I'll call David back and tell him I've got something else I'm working on- something much more important."

_Things have changed, haven't they? _Amita thought a little giddily, seeing the sincerity behind his eyes, an obvious willingness to drop his work for her. She pulled her hands free from Charlie's and dropped them to tenderly rub the outside of his thighs.

"You know, Charlie, the last few weeks have been like a fairy tale…"she began.

"Does that make me your Prince Charming?" Charlie leaned forward, face inches from hers, breathing the same air as she.

"Yes- yes it does." Amita whispered, her lips lifting upwards…then suddenly, she gently pushed him away and stood up, breaking the intimate moment. "But this is real life and I guess it's about time we got back to it."

"We still have a few days…" he offered.

"No, Charlie." She gathered her satchel and books, balancing them in one arm. "You know, I think we need to make sure that we can still be good, even when we have our usual distractions."

Charlie walked her to his door, stopping her at the last moment, his hand gripping her upper arm. "Promise to tell me if it stops being good. Not wait till things are really bad- I mean the second it starts going sour."

"I will, Charlie, I promise I will." She kissed him lightly on the tip of his nose, "Don't want my prince turning back into a toad."

He smiled, crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, watched her walk away from him down the hall.

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"Hey, Charlie." David and Colby greeted him with two quick bear hugs, Megan following behind them with a tired wave, dropping to a seat and sprawling out.

"Jetlag gets me every time," she explained.

"Me, too," Charlie told her, "coffee?"

"Sure, _anything _that will keep me awake."

After pouring her a cup, he offered some to his other guests, both of whom begged off. The next ten minutes were spent exchanging stories, updating each other on their cases, all three agents stacking complaints.

"My assignment was horrible," Megan said from behind her coffee mug, "Turns out he's an old has-been living off his previous stellar reputation. I spent most of the time intersecting his hands as they seemed to be particularly attracted to my breasts. And the perps! Anyone taking an intro to psych class could have profiled them."

"You think you had it bad…" Colby put in, describing his case.

In the midst of their trying to convince each other that their scenario had been the worst, Charlie sat down in front of his computer and pressed his hands in front of him in a steeple. "So, which one of these challenging cases has brought you here tonight?"

Megan and Colby looked to David, the man who had requested they come without telling them why. The young agent cleared his throat, scratched the back of his head. "Actually, I wanted help on something that has nothing to do with a case; at least, not one any of us are working on."

"I don't understand," Charlie replied.

David stood up and walked to the window, trying to find the right words. He really had no evidence, only Carson's conjectures and his own gut feeling. Ironically, normally it was Don's opinion he would have sought to help him decide how to proceed.

_Tell the truth and trust you own instincts_- advice that Don had given him on more than one occasion. With those words guiding him, David took a deep breath and faced his friends. "Earlier today, this cop I've been working with, Carson, he told me some rumors he's been hearing around his station."

Megan set her coffee aside; the expression on Colby's face became all serious.

"And?" Charlie sat forward, suspicious.

"And Carson told me he heard a federal agent was attacked by some south LA gang." He paused before finishing, emphasizing, "_about three weeks ago._"

Charlie stared at David, the words seeping in, understanding coming swiftly and he began rambling. "That…it isn't possible. You said he was in D.C….Merrick verified it- you said he verified it." But when Charlie looked over to Megan and Colby for support, he could tell by their faces that they had reconsidered the validity of what they had been told.

"No, you're wrong," Charlie muttered at them. He fumbled with the objects on his desk, knocking books and pencils aside until he found what he was looking for, speed-dialed Don over and over, began punching the numbers in on his own, finally slammed down the cell angrily when he got no reply, purposefully pushed a stack of books over before lying his head over the back of his chair, staring at the ceiling, furiously breathing.

David sat down next to him. "Charlie, it's possible it wasn't Don."

After an interminable time, Charlie pulled himself upright and replied. "Okay." He brushed some curls from his face and bit his bottom lip. "Okay, fine, how do we find out?"

"We can check the files of the LAPD," David told him, "according to Carson, they're working the case."

Charlie's face smoothed over. He didn't say another word, just pulled his chair up close to his desk and started typing.

Colby and Megan joined them, bending over Charlie's shoulders so they could observe what he was doing on the computer. "If it was an agent, why'd they give the case to the PD?" Colby asked, "When it's federal jurisdiction?"

"I'm not sure," Megan said. "But they must have had a very good reason, whatever it was."

"We're in," Charlie proclaimed. His eyes moved back and forth at lightning speed across the screen. "Got pages of calls that night- any more information so we can narrow it down?"

David replied, "Yeah, filter through with "Technos" and Whittier Boulevard for location, male for victim, and gang activity for crime."

A new window opened, this one containing far fewer links. "There, that one," David pointed. Charlie clicked on it and the transcript of radio calls for a particular patrol car appeared. They read through it quickly, their hearts sinking when they came across the words of a transmission located halfway down the page.

"_Code Six George, assault and battery sixty minutes past, Whittier and Vine, perps left on foot, no known direction or number of perps, victim male Caucasian, age late thirties-early forties."_

Their eyes kept going down the page, searching for further information. "Not much to go on," Colby commented. "Basically, they sent him away on a bus."

"Let's see what the final report says," Charlie told them. After a few more strokes of the keyboard, he sat back. "I can't seem to find it."

"Maybe an administrator has it under lock and key," David suggested, "I assume we can access all their files, even sensitive ones."

"Of course," Charlie went at it again, but found nothing. Momentarily defeated, he tapped his fingers agitatedly. "There has to be something on file."

"They could be doing it old-school," Megan told them, "have everything down on paper only. That way, if anyone wanted access to it they would have to physically walk into the station and ask to see it."

"I don't know," Colby said, "sounds like a lot of covering-up for a simple assault. Maybe we're wrong about this whole thing."

"Maybe," Charlie replied, "but I'm not giving up till I know for sure."

"Don't worry," Megan assured him, "neither are we."

"Let's try another tactic," David suggested, "see where that bus went."

"I don't see anything indicating which hospital was called," Charlie said. His fingers began to fly across the keyboard. "According to my calculations, he could have been taken to one of two- both of them are equidistance from the location of the crime. Let me see if I can pull up their dispatch reports." It didn't take long to find the ambulance they were looking for.

"Says they took him to ICU Medical," David read aloud, "but if it's Don, they admitted him under another name, cause that's not his."

"It's Don," Charlie stated flatly, "the 'sosh' is his."

"You sure?" Megan asked, "We could check his…"

"Yes," he snapped at her, "I saw his social security number once and yeah, believe it or not I remembered it."

"Okay, Charlie, we believe you." David squeezed Charlie's shoulder for reassurance.

They all stared at the nine numbers displayed in front of them, proof that their worst fears were true. A feeling of dread came over them, caused by worries about what had actually happened to Don and the reasons Merrick had for helping keep him hidden away. David broke the uneasy silence. "So, uh, why don't we see if he's still there?"

A few minutes later, Charlie told them, "Released early last week- that's it. Doesn't say anything else."

With this apparent dead end in their investigation, they physically separated themselves from each other, Megan shuffling to the coffee pot to pour herself a fifth cup, Colby over to the window to bend his back and stretch, David to lean against a table, his nails grating into the wood- all of them forming a loose circle around Charlie, who slammed his laptop shut.

"He has to be somewhere," Colby told them. "Maybe another hospital, you know, if he needed specialized treatment."

"Maybe," Megan said, "but then he could be at any number of them, depending on what the problem is."

David nodded at the chalkboard set to his right, speaking to Charlie as well. "Think you could come up with an algorithm to narrow that number down?"

Charlie glanced at the board. "I could…but it'll take a little time." He got up, strode across to the board, and began erasing it.

"Think there's a chance he's recuperating in his apartment?" Colby asked the group in general, "And not in a hospital?"

"No," Charlie murmured, "he'd be afraid me or Dad would visit unannounced and stumble on him. And you know how my dad likes to fuss when…"

Charlie's arm stopped moving.

"What's wrong?" Megan asked, exchanging puzzled glances with her colleagues.

Charlie dropped the eraser in his hand and out of nowhere he slammed a fist against the board, startling the others in the room. He turned to face them, hit his palm on the side of his head. "Stupid!" he cried. "So stupid."

"What is it, Charlie?" David said in a voice meant to calm; it was ineffectual.

Charlie hurriedly returned to his computer, flipped it open and moments later was typing.

Confused, the team members joined him. Charlie talked while he worked, "Dad…I should have known right away something was wrong."

"You think he knows what's going on?" Colby asked.

"You bet he does." Charlie explained, "When Don was in Fugitive Recovery, sometimes my dad would go off on these trips, some conference or whatever that came up out of nowhere. I found out a couple years ago he was really visiting Don in the hospital." He stopped working, his fingers bobbing above the computer keys, looked each agent in the face. "They promised not to do that anymore- you know, lie to me when Don got hurt on the job. And they haven't, not since I started consulting with the Bureau." Taking a deep breath, Charlie started working again.

Megan inquired, "You're saying Alan hasn't been around very much lately, so you think he's been spending that time with Don?"

"No, he hasn't been around _at all._" He sat back while the desired screen appeared before him. "Dad got that new contract- remember, we toasted him the night of his party?"

"Sure," David said, "it was for a building in San Diego, right?"

"Yeah," Charlie answered. "He called me the day after the party, said he was in Diego and he had to work onsite for a few weeks." Charlie started sounding defensive, wanting them to understand, wanting to understand himself. "Me and Amita- we sort of took advantage of Don and Dad being away at the same time, and…and I guess I've been preoccupied. And with you guys' confirming Don was in D.C., I never realized…I swear, it never crossed my mind."

"You couldn't have known," Megan assured him. She gave him a hug across his shoulders. "None of us gave it a second thought, either."

"And we should have," David said, "even with the rumor mill working overtime, we still shouldn't have heard anything about the covert assignment Don had supposedly gone on- at least, not the first day he was gone."

"Plus the lousy assignments we got," Colby said, "I bet Merrick was just trying to keep us apart."

"If he was, it was a good plan. If we'd been together, we would have been talking about Don," David said. "But I still don't get it- why all the subterfuge?"

"Maybe this is why," Charlie stated sadly, peering at his computer, "I ran down the location of my dad's cell phone through its GPS card. He's outside Mercy Hospital." Charlie stood up and moved away, allowing Colby to slip into his chair and the others to get a better view of the screen.

"Then Don _is _receiving specialized treatment," Colby said, leaning forward, "why be secretive about that?"

"I think it's obvious," Megan placed her fingertip over a spot on the map depicting the grounds of Mercy Hospital. "The GPS shows he's been to this building everyday." She raised her face to them. "It's the psyche wing."

The three agents sank into their seats, Colby wondering, "Think it has to do with our last case?"

"It's possible," Megan answered him, "Don was definitely affected by it. I even told Charlie that he needed help. But there's no way for us to know for sure.'

"Yeah, it wouldn't be right to go there," David said, "Just show up unannounced. I mean, if he wanted any visitors Alan would have let us know."

"Definitely." Megan turned in her seat as she said, "That means you, too, Charlie…"

But she was too late.

Charlie was long gone, his destination obvious.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: I would like to send a thank you to everyone who has been reviewing. I do appreciate it.

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Megan closed down Charlie's computer and slowly sat back in her seat, twiddling with a strand of loose hair. "I think we made a mistake here."

David looked at the floor guiltily. "I had no idea where he was- I swear if I had any clue about it, I'd have let it drop after Carson brought it up."

"Yeah," Colby said uneasily.

"I'd like to believe you would have- that _we_ would have," Megan replied. "But I'm not convinced. I mean, we could have spent a little more time, you know, thinking about why Don was out of commission _before _we went searching for him."

"Hard to argue that," Granger said as he dropped to a chair, rubbing his chin.

"On the other hand," Megan sighed, "It's just, well, it's _Don. _He never wants to admit when he's been injured, even when it's major, and I admit it bugged me that maybe he _was_ holed up in his apartment and not looking after himself like he should."

"His old partner liked to say that about him," David agreed, "that he doesn't take care of himself as well as he likes to think."

"I was thinking along a more bureaucratic route," Colby grimaced, "that maybe he was sent out alone on a simple assignment, one where it turned out he shouldn't have been by himself and, well, the agency was covering up for their mistake. Pretty lame thinking, huh?"

"You're not as crazy as you think," David told him. "Remember last year when our perp stuck the needle in his neck? Don was just serving a warrant. Should have been simple enough, since the perp was _supposed _to be with us, but it didn't work out that way. So, yeah, it isn't that farfetched to think something like that happened again. Only, maybe this time things went a lot worse."

Megan stood and stretched. "Something tells me this isn't about Don being out on his own- at least, not on a Bureau assignment. I think this has more to do with the last case we worked."

"He _was_ pretty depressed the last time we saw him," Colby observed. "Think that's the real reason he's locked up? He had some kind of breakdown over it?"

"I don't know," Megan answered honestly, glancing at him sharply, "but whatever the reason is, I do know one thing for sure- _it is none of our business until he tells us otherwise_."

Colby and David silently nodded in agreement.

"I don't know about you two, but I could use some rest," Megan said with a half yawn.

They put away Charlie's computer and left, all of them riding in David's car. They dropped Megan off at home and then headed towards the highway.

"What do you think?" Colby asked David, "About what Megan said?"

"She's right- whatever Don is being treated for in Mercy hospital, whether its depression or something else, _that's_ none of our business."

Reading his partner well, Colby replied, "But the physical assault committed against Don?"

"I don't think that's out of our range of interest, do you?"

"No," Colby agreed, "but according to your police buddy it's out of our range of access."

"Not really. There's someone we know who can tell us what we want to know about it."

"Like who?"

"Think about it, Colb. That night, after Don got the crap beat out of him, if he did have a mental breakdown why would anyone who arrived at the scene care about keeping it quiet? I mean, they'd want to be real careful with the case because he's a fellow law enforcement officer, but why would they think to hush up the whole thing _right away_?"

"You sure they did?" Colby asked. "The secrecy might have been an afterthought."

"Uh, uh. It had to be immediately or word would be out by now. No, someone made that decision real quick- someone trying to protect Don. Someone who knows Don well enough to want to keep his reputation intact, keep rumors from flying that he was suddenly a mental case, someone who was also at the scene that night."

"That could be a lot of people. Don has more than one friend in the LAPD."

"Let's narrow that list down to those in the gang unit. We know from the radio transcript their help was requested that night."

"You must be thinking of Lieutenant Walker."

"You got it. Don's worked with him closer than anybody else from the LAPD gang unit, and, more importantly, Walker has the authority to initiate and carry-through this cover-up."

"Yeah, okay" Colby said, "but if he went to all this trouble to keep the facts of the case from leaking out, why do you think he'll discuss them with _us_?"

"I don't. Doesn't matter, though, cause it's not the purpose I have in mind," David said. "We're just going to pay a nice little visit, ask for some reassurance that they're working this case right; make sure they know if they drop the ball, we're willing to run with it."

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Don pressed his fingers into his father's side, waiting for sleep.

Despite the sedatives, it did not come easily.

Don was lying on the hospital bed, head resting against his father's hip and left arm awkwardly circled around his waist, seeking respite from the nightmares of both night and day. Alan sat in the bed, back against the wall, legs twisted over the edge, quietly working a soduku puzzle.

Don pressed against Alan, a reactive motion without feeling or thought.

They'd come for him again, in the late morning. Dragged him away and assaulted him, tore into him and rent him into shreds, his life stripped fabric lying limply in the wind.

Ironically, it was during these times only that Don felt alive- horribly, wickedly, terrifyingly alive as his assailants managed to elicit from him all the emotions that had ever been contained within him.

Or so it seemed.

At other moments of the day, steadily, over the past two weeks, he had begun to lose all feeling, numbness slowly starting to consume his body as if he were frostbitten from the frigid callousness of the world he had come to intimately know- his extremities stiff and brittle to the touch, the sensation working its way inward to the core of his body, stifling his ability to move, to think- _to be._

Often, his father's voice warmed him enough that he was able to attend to a few things. To shave and bathe and change his clothes, take the required medications and sitz baths, eat what he could choke down his throat, walk to his sessions with Dr. Saunders, to listen to her- but he could do very little else.

I'm lost, Don began thinking, and I don't know where to find myself.

He was tired, uncaring. Nothing seemed to matter any more. He tried, really tried to care. To remember that he had a brother and friends and a job that he loved, that he had a life outside the hospital that was waiting for him to return.

But he couldn't summon up any emotions that would propel him to action. They just weren't there anymore.

In the mornings, he had begun searching; trying to figure out where Don Eppes had gone. He would stand naked in front of the bathroom mirror, run his hands over his body, fleetingly over his many and varied scars, attempting to draw forth any memory of who he once was, no indication of the brother and colleague and son anywhere he touched, finding nothing but the tattered remains of a broken bag of flesh who had given them permission to use him _that way_ and allowed them to walk away from him with no retribution, no firm protest, behaving so submissive, so compliant, _no longer a man_. When he ran his fingertips over his lower back, he traced some of the lines that formed the letters they had carved there, that word crystal clear in front of his mind's eyes, a continual reassertion and permanent label of what he now believed he would always be, wondering if somehow they had been able to cut through to where his soul had been contained and had bled it free, his sense of being and all of his emotions seeping out in the blood, pooled at his feet.

As he fell into a restless sleep, he was certain that the Don Eppes who had once existed was gone, splattered onto the ground of an alleyway…

Alan glanced down at Don, bent forward and moved a blanket over his left shoulder and then settled back against the wall, thought about the almost two weeks since Don had signed himself into the hospital.

Challenges- there had been quite a few challenges. Some they had met successfully, others not.

The first week had included the rather simple one of getting into routine. That had been the best and easiest. The worst had been helping Don to bathe again; at the previous hospital, until the day he left, the staff had tended to him while he slept.

Not so at Mercy.

"If he can't take care of himself, he'll have to go into a more restricted portion of the wing," a nurse had told Alan. "We can do more for him, but that means he'll lose some of his freedom."

So Don had gone along with their request that he attempt it with their supervision. He had refused to shower, but had been agreeable to a special bath that seemed more like a miniature hot tub in shape, a plastic bench lining its circular walls so he could sit upright comfortably and watch as the water rose around him. Don had become more anxious with every new action he took- from disrobing once he was within the safe confines of the tub, to applying soap to his body, from rinsing his skin to the fear that constricted his features when, after long deliberation, he put his head back and let Alan wash his hair, a wrap across his forehead to prevent water from dripping into his face.

No flashbacks; they had taken every step slowly and thankfully none occurred.

After the initial bath, which had taken over an hour, the nursing staff watched twice more before deciding it would be safe to leave Alan and Don alone to tend to his needs on a daily basis.

It was one major challenge that had been offered, one they had met.

Then there was the therapy.

Don still refused to talk with Dr. Saunders when he went to therapy- Alan knew because he asked her each time a session ended. As for group...well, Alan hoped Don would go eventually, but he wondered more and more how long it would be before eventually finally arrived.

It was one challenge that was continuously offered, one that had yet to be met...

"How's he doing?"

Alan startled at the sound, having drifted off moments before. He blinked his eyes, smiled at the nurse who was standing near the bed. "He just fell asleep about," Alan glanced at the clock, "fifteen minutes ago."

The nurse noted this on Don's chart. Alan gingerly removed himself from Don's grasp and climbed off the bed, lightly stretched while the nurse moved in to check Don's temple.

"Does it look okay, Jane?" Alan asked. Being a constant fixture at the hospital, he had gotten to know most of the nurses that worked the wing and many of the orderlies, too.

"Hmm, I'd say so," Jane said, "the stitches were well-done. As long as he doesn't tear into them…" She looked at the restraints on the bed, hesitating to attach them with Alan standing so forlornly nearby.

"Do you have to?" he finally asked.

"I'm afraid the doctor thinks its best- at least for tonight," Jane apologized as she started putting them into place, keeping an eye out that she wasn't disturbing Don. "The sedatives aren't working as well as they were, and the dosage can't be increased for another week. That's when he'll be off his antiretroviral meds." She moved around to the other side of the bed. "And after what happened today, well, we _have _to be concerned he'll rip into those stitches. Really, that is a nasty gash on his head."

Alan argued weakly, "I'll be with him all night."

"We know," Jane smiled, "but the worst of the flashbacks come so quickly and violently, it is doubtful you could get to him before he hurt himself again, especially if you're asleep when and if one initiates."

How could he argue? Alan had been standing right next to Don not eight hours before, just exiting the outer room of Dr. Saunders office when a visitor passed by them and like a bolt of lightning, a flashback had occurred, striking Don with so much emotion he had fallen like dead weight to the floor, thrashing his body with such strength Alan had immediately stepped back to allow two large orderlies to contain him, none of them ready in time to prevent Don from throwing his head back and gashing his temple on the corner of a nearby coffee table.

Dr. Saunders had stood there, tears in her eyes, apologizing. "I don't know who thought it'd be okay to leave that horrid table here when we've updated all of our other furniture."

Alan had wanted to tell it she didn't have to say sorry, but he couldn't. He had thought somebody should bear the guilt of what had happened and knew it couldn't be him- he was already overloaded as it was. So he'd turned away, leaving the blame of the accident to her, had walked next to the stretcher that had been summoned to take Don into the hospital proper, barely heard Dr. Saunders behind them as she demanded someone remove the antiquated piece of furniture from the room, the sound of her surprisingly harsh voice wafting down the corridor after them.

Stitches, MRI, sedatives- then an exhausted Don went to bed earlier than usual, clinging to Alan as lately he had been wont to do.

While Jane put the last of the restraints around Don's ankle, Alan rubbed his eyes wearily. "You have more than an hour before final check-in," Jane whispered to him. "I'll stay here with Don if you'd like to get some fresh air."

"Thank you," Alan said gratefully, "that sounds like a good idea."

He pulled a light jacket from one of the drawers of the dresser and headed out of what could be considered his room.

Alan was no longer staying at the hotel. He had taken to sleeping in Don's room before the first week was over. He judged that his decision was for an insensible reason- the nagging feeling that in the brief time he and Don were apart every night his son was decaying away. Though he chastised himself, said it didn't make sense to think it was true, there was little evidence to convince him he was wrong in his belief. Don Eppes, his son, seemed to be disappearing in front of Alan's eyes, his body thinning and the color draining away from his skin, only colored in several spots where wayward scars still shone a light pink. His voice was a monotone, no inflection, the words breathed between his lips lusterless and dry of emotion, his eyes a desert wasteland, empty, his whole being dehydrated of spirit, his soul seeming to escape at night and return again when Alan arrived in the morning, though its essence was shades lighter and less able to fill Don each time it came back from its brief sojourn. Don appeared to be no more than a porcelain shell, for he had little substance to sustain him from inside.

Truly, Alan feared he'd come one day and when he hugged him, Don would crumble into dust.

So he stayed at the hospital, keeping watch that his son did not vanish in the night.

After shrugging on his jacked, Alan made his way through the quiet corridors of the hospital. He signed out and alerted the nurse that he would be staying the night once again, then took the elevator to the first floor, exited, and hurried to the hospital doors, pushed through and took a deep breath, enjoyed the crisp coolness that expanded his lungs. Thus refreshed, Alan was acutely aware when a familiar silhouette peeled itself from a darkened niche in the outside wall of the hospital.

As it approached him, his eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "Charlie?"

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The ride to the hospital seemed like the longest drive he'd taken in his entire life. Of course, there was the ride his mother had taken the last time she had gone to the hospital, driven there in an ambulance to die.

It had probably been longer.

He would never know, though, as he had not gone with. Instead, he had stayed in his garage working on his numbers, trying to cancel out all thought of what was happening to her, the fact that she had left and would never return.

Charlie knew Don hadn't understood.

Not about his refusal to see their mother, nor his inability to leave the garage.

Really, Charlie found it difficult to explain it himself. He'd attempted to, but usually failed to find a satisfactory cause to the effect.

In the end, it didn't matter.

His mother was still dead.

His father had been with her so she hadn't died alone.

And Don had forgiven him.

But in the end, Charlie had not forgiven himself.

When his mother was dying and needed him most, he had slipped away from her, had purposely gone down a road where she could not follow him, set up barricades so his father and brother could not reach him no matter how hard they tried, traveled so far from his family and their troubles that it had taken months before he'd found that despite the distance he had carefully put between them, all of the paths set before him would always, indeed, lead him back home and that is where he eventually found himself, with his father and brother, and their forgiveness…But none from himself.

Charlie had been certain there was no way to alleviate his guilt. That is, until the first murder case he worked with Don, where the sacrifice of his time and numbers to what appeared to be mundane mathematical applications had healed a part of him, made him feel whole, taught him that his work could actually save the lives of an unknown number of people all around him, not just in theory, but reality.

And he'd realized that amongst the people he helped save, there was Don.

Not only as pertained his job. Sure, Charlie's mathematical applications could outline better lines of defense, pinpoint safer positions from which to fire on a target, identify the best location for a bomb so that it could be avoided- all things that had theoretically saved Don's life on more than one occasion.

But that wasn't all.

It had amazed Charlie, thrilled him, to realize that by simply spending more time with Don he could help save him on so many other levels.

When Don confessed to him his mind was a bad neighborhood sometimes, Charlie attempted to pull him from that place with a simple diversion.

It had worked.

When he and his father happened upon Don playing the piano in their living room, it had been Charlie who hired a professional repairman to fix the loose strings, to tune it to perfection, had dusted all of their mother's music off and coyly set it on top of the bench, begging to be played.

And Don had, but only when he thought he was alone.

So when Charlie sensed there was something bad developing in Don, he would present concert tickets to his father and Millie, shooing them from the house, call up Don and grouse about their dating, sigh that he had to spend the next five hours at CalSci, see you later. Then Charlie hid in the garage, patiently waiting till Don arrived and gave a private concert performance, no audience save a younger brother lying silently on the couch in his garage- the ghost of their mother hovering between them.

When Don broke up with Robyn, he'd sat up with him all night, their father having thrown in the towel somewhere around four a.m. They hadn't talked, just watched a muted television set, something about being near each other enough to save Don from further sorrow.

It was in performing these little tasks that Charlie unconsciously decided that it was now his job to be the family protector. It was his way of making restitution to his mother for having left her and his family while she was dying, a way for him to work out his own forgiveness. He would take care of her firstborn son, keep an eye on him for her sake, would look after Don because Charlie knew it was one job in which his brother did not excel, and one which his mother was no longer there to perform.

Only, the last three weeks he'd been lax in his job, had let his devotion to his brother fall aside as he concentrated on his relationship with Amita.

Selfish, he berated himself, how could you not know that Don was in trouble, that he needed you?

The logical part of Charlie's mind insisted he wasn't psychic, had no reason to doubt what he'd been told by Don's team. After all, Don had gone off on assignment plenty of times before and his father would often work on site.

Still, Charlie couldn't help believing that he'd let his mother down once again, had gone back on his unspoken promise to take care of Don. Compelled by this guilt and his self-appointed obligation to his mother, Charlie had ignored all of his inner alarms warning him to slow down, think before he acted, that he shouldn't have used his security clearance to find Don, that he shouldn't have left his friends before they could talk him out of going to the hospital, that he had no right to be heading there when it was apparent his brother didn't want him, that Don hadn't requested anybody's aid.

Then again, that was Don.

Megan and Colby and David understood this about him and so did Charlie. You had no choice but to thrust yourself on Don and make him take your hand, drag him back home. It was what Charlie had tried to do the night of their dad's birthday party, only he had failed to in that attempt.

Not this time.

He wasn't sure how, but he was going to march into that hospital, locate his brother, put his arms around him, carry him back home and make everything be right for him- take care of his mother's son.

It was Charlie's way of working off the sins of his past- ones long forgotten and forgiven by everyone else in his life but himself.

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After Charlie arrived at Mercy hospital, his plan to see Don was thwarted by the large woman behind the receptionist desk who crossed her arms and easily stared him down. "You are who?" she asked.

"_Doctor_ Charles Eppes," he repeated, attempting to gain leverage with his title. It didn't faze her in the least.

"Well, _Doctor_ Charles Eppes, we are not prone to giving out the names of our patients. I will, however, check to see if you are on anybody's visitor list."

Taking her sweet time, she slowly brought up a page on her computer, making sure to keep the screen turned fully away from his view. "Ah," she said, "I don't see your name. Oh, my mistake, that's not what we want. Now let me see…"

Charlie discontinued his arguing, aware that there was nothing he could do but stand there till she decided to help him.

In time, she did.

"No, I'm so sorry," she told him. "Your name is not on any of our lists. So sorry." Her smirk belied the sincerity of her words.

"But my father comes to visit him. His name is Alan Eppes. Couldn't you contact him for me?"

With a deep sigh, she picked up a phone and pressed a number, said a few words into the receiver behind a cupped hand. Finally, she informed him, "I'm afraid you'll have to contact your father on your own. I have been assured that there is presently no Alan Eppes visiting this facility."

Charlie believed she was lying. Still did when he stormed out to his car, tore open the door and then slammed it behind him once inside.

Dammit!

After pounding the dashboard a few times, he calmed down, lost all of his bluster, tears trickling down his cheeks.

All he wanted was to see Don, to know he was alright. It would be impossible to believe Don was safe until he saw him with his own two eyes. Charlie leaned his head back over the top of his seat, stared at the ceiling, configured the number of stitches used to sew the fabric together, wondered if Don had done something to himself despite the chart that Charlie had devised to prove otherwise.

Charlie forced away those thoughts and tried to call his dad.

No answer, of course.

It was clear his only hope of seeing Don would be through their dad. Convinced he was in the hospital with Don, Charlie decided his best course of action would be a combination of patience and waiting. At some time, his dad would have to come out and Charlie would be waiting for him, would be able to confront him with his lies and make a convincing argument to see Don.

He glanced out the side window and noticed the hotel next door. His dad was probably staying there so he could be as close to Don as possible. But that posed a problem for Charlie, as it had a walkway leading to the hospital. If he sat in his car, he wouldn't be able to see his father if he chose that route.

Wiping his hands over his eyes, Charlie climbed out of his car and searched around the grounds until he found the perfect spot- a location where he could see into one window of the walkway and was also near the front doors of the hospital. Whichever exit his dad chose to use, he'd be able to see him.

Charlie squeezed into a niche beside a potted plant, practiced what he'd say to his father, his eyes darting back and forth between the hospital doors and the walkway.

He wasn't disappointed. As night began to fall, his father came dashing out of the hospital, as if in pursuit.

Or was he mistaken, was that really him?

When Charlie first saw his father, he was momentarily taken aback. His mother had always said that men and women aged differently, that a woman could appear old early in her twenties, but a man's appearance didn't change the same way. Men grow old overnight, she'd told him, they can look young and vibrant well into their sixties and then, just like that, they're suddenly ancient.

If she'd been making this argument in court, Charlie believed she could have used his dad as evidence, because, somehow, in three short weeks, he'd become an old man.

"Dad?" Charlie asked when he heard him say his name.

"Yeah," Alan said. For a moment, they stared at each other.

Charlie expected his father would want an explanation, but he wasn't going to offer one- at least not yet. His first order of business was to gain access to Don, and he had long ago decided to take the offensive. Standing directly in front of Alan, he put his hands on his hips, scowling.

But to Charlie's surprise, his dad did not sound like he was sorry for all of his deceit. Instead, he glared at him, angrily demanding, "What the hell are you doing here?"


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: I fell on the ice. My arm's in a sling till the swelling goes down. Bad luck month- virus in the family (I can't seem to shake it) and now ice. : ( So, sorry Patty it took so long. : ) The pain meds they gave me stink. We'll see how it goes. No best wishes necessary. Just a little forgiveness if the next few chapters are a little off. (true meaning: stink)

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"Hey, Walker."

The lieutenant lifted his head, frowned when he saw the two men walking towards him. Walker was leaning against a squad car, overseeing the investigation of a drive-by that had taken the lives of three teenagers. Their bodies were still in place on the ground, the medical examiner kneeling in front of them, ready to declare official death.

There were no media cameras stationed nearby though the call about the murders had gone over the radio almost an hour before.

Walker had long grown cynical. He knew the reason no media was there. Three young black men in the worst area of South LA- happened all the time, nothing unusual going on here. Sometimes they were lighter-skinned, occasionally white, but they all shared the commonalities of being dirt poor and anonymous, of no concern to the greater society unless they dared to cross over into more prestigious territory.

That hadn't been the case.

Since they were shot in their own personal no-man's land, no media had appeared, the few people who would be missing them the three mothers standing behind the yellow police tape, staring at their children and wondering _where did I go wrong_?

What they should really be thinking, Walker thought as he stood up to greet David and Colby, is _where did our society go wrong_?

"Gentlemen," Walker said in a formal voice, "How may I help you?"

A glance passed between the two agents, a silent communication as to who should take the lead, their ability to agree without spoken word identifying them as longstanding partners.

David spoke first. "We came to see you about a case that you're working."

"Oh?" Walker raised his chin, daring them to ask about Don's case, for it was the obvious reason for them being there.

"Yeah," Colby replied.

The three men stared each other down until David broke the standoff with a wave of his hand. "Come on, Walker. He's our boss _and _our friend. You'd want to know what was going on, too, don't deny it."

And Walker couldn't. He was actually surprised this conversation hadn't come earlier. But then, the LAPD special rape unit was very efficient, their officers well-trained to keep quiet about the identity of victims if they were requested to, something not unusual when a wife or mother, or even a single college girl chose to keep their assaults to themselves. Add to that the other blockades they'd put up- limiting the number of personnel working the case, the new health laws that protected the privacy of patients, and keeping the case facts off the computer, writing them in paper files that could only be accessed by the principles involved in the investigation and their superiors- Walker supposed it made sense that they had been able to keep the assault under wraps, till now, for some reason unbeknownst to him.

The medical examiner interrupted them, calling across to Walker, who pulled away from David and Colby and headed over to the basketball court where the three victims were lying. After an intense talk, Walker motioned to the crime scene technicians that they could carry on with their work, handed over command to an immediate subordinate, stopped to say a few kind words to the victims' relatives, and then he strode away, right past the two waiting agents.

David and Colby had to jog in order to catch up with Walker.

"Hey, man," David growled at Walker, keeping pace with him on one side while Colby took the other. "We need to talk."

Not slowing down, Walker barked in response, "No, we don't."

The trio rushed halfway down the street until Walker stopped abruptly in front of an unmarked car, was pulling the door open when Colby placed an open palm against its edge.

Walker glared at him. "Move," he ordered.

"Not until we get some answers," Colby said evenly, all of his body weight against the door.

David came up behind Walker, standing close enough to hiss in his ear, "We're not leaving- me, my partner, _or you_. So, unless you want to stand here all night, I suggest you start talking."

Not giving an inch, Walker eyed David. "What exactly do you _think_ we need to talk about?"

"Not what, who," Colby replied, trying to keep his frustration under control. He met David's eyes, both of them acknowledging Walker wasn't the bad guy because he had to be the one who had hidden Don's mental breakdown, an act meant to protect not hurt him. But neither one could understand why the guy wouldn't give them a moment of his time since it had to be obvious they knew Don had been committed to the mental hospital- or at the very least, that he had been assaulted.

David swallowed, drew back from Walker in an attempt to be less threatening. "Look, we know all about what happened to Don three weeks back. We know some gang members gave him a good going-over."

"Yeah," Colby said, removing his hand from the car door. "We just wanted to ask a few questions, that's all."

Walker stood there, mulling over their words. Their description of the crime as a "going-over" meant neither man knew that their boss had been sexually assaulted. Walker folded his arms and spread his legs, standing immovably, hoping he could convince the two agents into giving up any further inquiry so the true nature of the assault could still be contained. "All right, go ahead and ask your questions. But I don't guarantee that I'll answer them."

"Well," David stumbled over his words, not sure what to say now that he had Walker's attention, "I guess we'd like to know why the PD is handling the case instead of the feds."

"I'm not admitting that anybody in the PD is handling what would normally be a federal case. However, _if_ that ever happened, it would be to keep the confidential facts of the case from prying eyes," Walker said. He finished his statement in his most sarcastic tone of voice, "It seems, believe it or not, that some feds have a habit of sticking their noses into cases that are _none of their business_."

"Our friend is our business," David assured him.

Walker snorted derisively.

Ignoring the other man's attitude, David asked, "How'd you do it? You know, get it moved to police jurisdiction."

"I'm not saying that I moved any federal case to police jurisdiction. But maybe, if special circumstances ever came up in a case, like an experienced officer was suffering from burnout and getting assaulted tipped him over the edge," Walker explained, purposely reconfirming in the agents' minds their belief that Don had only been beat up and was hospitalized from the stress of his job, "the Bureau might agree that letting an outside agency work it would keep those nosey-bodies feds I just mentioned from spreading rumors around and ruining a man's career."

David and Colby scowled at Walker. "Are you saying we can't be trusted?" Colby asked angrily. "Is that it? You really think we'd gossip around the water cooler 'bout Don burning out and being locked in a mental institute?"

Walker dropped his head and shook it in disappointment. "What if you're wrong?"

The two agents stepped back, shifting from one foot to the other, puzzled. "What do you mean?" David finally asked.

"About me," Walker snapped, hitting his palm against his chest. "About this case you're asking me about." His voice slowly rose as he continued, "You ever think maybe you're _wrong _and I'm _not_ the one involved in making the case stay quiet, yet here you are telling me that your boss was physically assaulted three weeks ago and is now locked away. If I knew nothing about it before, I sure know all about it now- _thanks to the two of you_."

The faces of the agents dropped. "No," David quietly told Walker, "you're lying. It had to be you. Nobody else could cover up the assault on a federal agent except someone in authority."

"And we read the radio dispatches," Colby said, "so we know the gang unit was called."

"Only person in that unit who could orchestrate this whole thing would be you," David accused, "So, you already know what we're talking about."

"But if I hadn't," Walker said firmly, "I would now."

"But the fact remains that you did," Colby groused, "So you got some other point to make?"

"Yeah- I'm trying to get you to think… if I supposedly put in all this effort to protect your boss, you know, keep it under wraps that maybe he's caved under pressure of the job," Walker replied, suddenly snatching at the handle to his car door and tugging it open, dropping inside before anyone could protest, "then why, you should ask yourselves, why are you trying to unravel all of my work?"

Walker slammed the door shut, David and Colby standing there mute, unable to respond. Then they heard the engine rev, which startled them from their trance. David knocked on the car window and Walker rolled it down. "What?"

David told him, "Okay, you're right. We shouldn't be here asking all these questions. I didn't really think you'd answer them, anyway. It's just, we need to know- are they doing alright by Don?"

Walker paused before answering. "I think," he said cautiously, "that there are cases without witnesses able to tell what happened, and with forensic evidence that doesn't match anybody in the system, and where the victim does not want to discuss the details…I think that those cases are very difficult to solve, no matter how many hours or how much effort has been put into catching the culprits."

David and Colby knew Walker was telling them that Don's case was at a standstill, that there was not much more they could do until Don was ready to discuss what happened, but that the PD had been working hard to solve it. They stepped back from Walker's car, nodding at him. "Thanks," David said, "that's all we really wanted to know. If you need a lending hand…" He left the offer hanging in the air.

"Won't take it," Walker said bluntly. "And you better think about why. A good case can easily be lost if the defense can present a conflict of interest. Think about that before delving too deep into any case."

Then Walker drove away, glancing in the rearview mirror. He saw David and Colby come together, their heads bowed as they discussed something no one else was privy to. Walker thought about what they had told him, about having read the radio transcripts. Positive they'd done more than that, Walker phoned his supervisor. "Look, about the Eppes case. I think we have a little problem we need to resolve right now…"

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"Dad…"

The word hung in the air between them, a plea from Charlie that almost tore Alan into bits.

Almost, but not quite.

Setting his jaw and squaring his shoulders, Alan demanded once again, "Why are you here, Charlie?"

Charlie stared at Alan, uncomprehending. Moments before he'd been sure he had the upper hand, was positive his dad would be so embarrassed about his lies that he'd spill everything about Don. Instead, here Alan was unflinching before him, the old man he had just seen suddenly gone, replaced by the formidable ox Charlie had known all his life. And Alan was clearly unconcerned about his own behavior, putting all wrongdoing on Charlie, who no longer believed he was going to win the argument.

But he had to try.

"Why do you think"- Charlie began but Alan cut in. Both of them drew closer together as they began shouting at each other.

"I can't believe you intruded in on your brother's…"

"Intruded? He's my brother for…"

"You have no right to be…"

"You had no right to keep this from…"

"If he'd wanted you to know…"

"Oh, please, we're talking about Don…"

"How the hell did you find out to…"

"A cop told David all about it."

Alan froze. The next sentence Charlie was going to say gurgled in his throat. Anxiously, Alan asked, "A cop? Are you sure Charlie?"

In a span of a few moments, the old man was back and Charlie was again shocked to see how worn his father looked. Concern for Don was quickly put aside as Charlie became worried for his father's well-being. Forgetting his well-formed arguments and feelings of betrayal, Charlie tenderly took Alan by the arm and led him to a nearby bench, directing him to sit. Charlie dropped down beside him, sat forward and rubbed his hands together, unable to look his father in the eye.

"David has been working on a case with the LAPD," Charlie said, "his partner told him that there were rumors a federal agent had been assaulted by some gang. You know, roughed up. The timeframe for when it occurred fit with the day Don was supposedly sent out of town. I guess we put two and two together, or maybe it was just our guts telling us it was him."

"Was that all he told David?" Alan was scared. Don had threatened that he'd die if Charlie knew he'd been raped; he had no idea what Don would do if he found out all of the local law enforcement agencies were privy to it, also.

"He didn't know that Don had been committed," Charlie replied, thinking his father was referring to Don's current placement and was afraid that others had found out about it. "The only ones who know Don is here are me, David, Megan, and Colby." After a second he added, "And Lieutenant Walker, of course. But I guess you already know that."

"He has been very helpful," Alan admitted. He relaxed somewhat as he was relieved that nobody appeared to know about the rape. "I'm sure he didn't tell you where Don is, so how did you find out?"

"We used my NSA security clearance to access the radio dispatches from the night of your birthday party. Once we found the ones describing a gang assault, we followed the ambulance records for the victim."

"But you didn't look at Don's hospital records?" Alan prodded.

"No, my clearance doesn't allow me access."

Alan was finally satisfied that no one knew about the rape. Still, he gave Charlie a disapproving look. "But you would have, wouldn't you? If you'd been allowed access, you would have intruded further into your brother's privacy like that?"

"I didn't mean to intrude." Charlie glanced over at Alan. "I don't know what I meant to do. When it comes to Don, sometimes I don't think at all. I just react."

Alan smiled gently at Charlie, patted him on the arm, easily forgiving him. "I know that. So does Don. I'm sorry for yelling at you."

Moving closer to him, Charlie told Alan, "I'm sorry for showing up like this, out of the blue." He grabbed at Alan's hand and held it. "But I meant what I said. I want to help."

Alan gazed at the hand holding his own. It would be so nice to let someone else take the lead, carry away all of the heaviness that was beginning to crush his chest and so often made it difficult to breathe. For a few moments, Alan let that thought relieve some of the worry that had been his alone for three weeks. He could let Charlie sit with Don, talk with him, take him to the therapist, help him bathe and eat and simply survive. How much easier it would be to let the younger man take over…

Only, Alan knew he couldn't.

It had been so long ago, but he remembered it like his own personal flashback- the moment that Don had been placed in his arms for the first time and Alan had become a father. The position was not one he had a right to give away nor would he ever choose to. Exhausted, anxious, sorrowful, completely depleted- Alan had not felt this way since his wife had been dying and he was helpless to intercede.

But he wasn't helpless to save his loved one this time and he would be damned if he didn't intercede.

"Charlie, I'm sorry. But there is nothing you can do."

"I don't believe that."

"Maybe you don't, but it's still the truth."

"Dad, I know what you're thinking."

"You do, huh?" Alan peered into Charlie's eyes, tried to glean from them what thoughts were going through his mind.

"Yes." Charlie sat forward, gripped Alan's hand tighter. "It's not like that. Not like before w-when mom was dying. I promise I won't bail on you. That's what you're worried about, right? It's why you didn't trust me the last three weeks. You thought I'd go hide in the garage when I found out Don was in trouble."

"No," Alan said slowly. "That's not it at all."

"It has to be." Charlie insisted. "Nothing else makes sense."

"None of this makes any sense," Alan whispered. _Not my son lying in a hospital bed with his arms in restraints, not the fact that he's trained in defending people and yet was unable to prevent himself from being raped, not the monsters that stalk him morning to night and are peeling apart his brain, not the anguish that seems to be sucking him dry of life._

"Nothing makes sense anymore," Alan reiterated. He pulled his hand from Charlie's, signifying the end of any ideas they had entertained of Charlie taking his place, of Charlie alleviating Alan from some of his responsibilities.

"Dad, please don't shut me out like this."

Alan turned away, his back to Charlie. "I have no choice."

"But I promise…"

Shaking his head, Alan stopped him from further protests. "This isn't about you, Charlie. It's all about Don."

"I know that."

"No, you don't."

"Dad, I'm here because of him, not me."

"I know, Charlie, I know."

"So why can't I help?"

"Charlie…" Alan twisted to face Charlie, patted him on the arm again. "I don't mean you _can't _help. If it were up to me, I'd have you by my side because I know you'd let me lean on you."

"So, why…"

"Don doesn't want you here," Alan blurted. His face creased with a frown when he saw the pain that crossed Charlie's face.

"No, that's not true." Dampness glossed the bottom lids of Charlie's eyes.

"I'm afraid it is."

"That's…that's impossible. Let me talk to him, I'm sure he'll change his mind."

"I can't do that, Charlie. It's too risky."

"You think I might hurt Don?"

"Yes."

Tears fell down Charlie's face. How could anyone- especially his family- believe he could ever harm Don? Charlie lowered his head away from Alan and searched his pockets for Kleenex, failed to find any, so without thinking he tugged up the bottom of his t-shirt and wiped at his face, his lower lip trembling.

The childlike expression Charlie wore reminded Alan how young and innocent his son could be, how fragile Charlie was when it came to anyone thinking poorly of him, especially if that person was his older brother. As Charlie ran a sleeve over his face and tried to compose himself, Alan wondered if that was why Don refused to see Charlie, wondered if Don saw that small child every time he was around his brother. Even though the two worked together, Alan knew Don tried to keep Charlie an arm's length away from the worst horrors of his job. Maybe Don was trying to shield Charlie from the horrors of what had happened to him more than he was ashamed to let Charlie know that it had occurred.

Alan chastised himself.

He hadn't wanted to share this pain with Charlie, had tried himself to shield him from it by not telling him about Don's commitment in the hospital. But it had been inevitable; Charlie was too engrossed in Don's life to have his whereabouts hidden from him forever. It would also be true about the rape. Still, Don wasn't ready for Charlie to know. Alan didn't know how Charlie would react once that deceit was revealed. As Charlie appeared to stop crying, Alan reminded himself that despite current appearances to the contrary, his youngest son was not a child any more. Though Charlie did not believe it, Alan had faith in him; he knew that working with Don had made Charlie into a man who was as strong as his brother- at the current moment, stronger, and he would be able to cope with Don's rejection for a little while longer. With this in mind, Alan stood firm on his decision to not discuss the rape. However, he knew Charlie deserved to know something.

"Charlie," Alan tried to comfort, "I don't think you'd hurt him on purpose. But Don's not doing very well and there's a chance you might set back his recovery."

"Just by talking to him?" Charlie sniffed.

"Yes, Charlie. Just by talking to him."

"He's that bad?"

"Yes," Alan said, "yes, he's that bad."

If he'd been frightened about Don's well-being before, Charlie was petrified now. "He hasn't," Charlie stammered, "he hasn't, uh, tried to…you know?"

"Tried to?" It only took a few seconds for Alan to catch on to what Charlie was asking. Hurriedly, he assured, "No, Charlie. No, he hasn't tried to harm himself. At least, not on purpose."

"Not on purpose?" The entire situation was beginning to perplex Charlie. He had come to the hospital with the desire to see Don, with the belief that he would be able to help solve whatever ailed him. Apparently, he had been naive in his thinking; the situation was more complex than a simple assault, appeared more than burnout, and he was embarassed that he'd come charging at his father as if he could single-handedly save Don from...what? That was the entire problem. Charlie had no idea what was exactly wrong with Don. Seeing him was not going to happen. Charlie was now certain of that. So he knew he needed to find out why Don was committed so he could at least understand what was happening to him. The need for information, the need to know- it was simply innate in Charlie. Sitting upright, Charlie reigned in his emotions and redirected the purpose of the conversation from persuasion to one that would garner him as much data as he could obtain.

"Look," Charlie said, "I'm not understanding you at all. Is Don suicidal or not?"

Alan wasn't sure if he could give Charlie a truthful answer, because he wasn't convinced one way or the other as to whether or not Don wanted to die. "Charlie, I'm not going to lie. Sometimes, I think Don is trying to kill himself by wasting away. If I wasn't with him everyday, I think he might."

"What does the doctor say?"

Alan looked across the parking lot towards the setting sun. He had promised Don he wouldn't tell Charlie about the rape, but he didn't feel as if he could keep everything from him now that he knew Don was hospitalized. "Dr. Saunders, his psychologist," Alan said, carefully choosing how much he would reveal to Charlie, "says Don is heading into a depressive state. He's lethargic, doesn't want to do anything. Much of the time he's non-responsive. It seems like he sits for hours, just staring into space."

"So what are they doing to help him?" Charlie demanded to know. "Why let him sit there like that?"

"We're trying," Alan said, though he had been silently questioning if they were doing enough. "Don is scheduled for individual therapy twice a day, group therapy once a day. But he has to choose on his own to participate- we can't make him. So far, he won't talk with Dr. Saunders and I can't even get him to go to group."

Charlie thought about this for a few minutes before echoing his father's earlier exclamation, "None of this makes sense."

"We're doing the best we can."

"No," Charlie shook his head, "Not the treatment- I'm talking about Don's behavior. Why is he depressed? Just because he was physically assaulted? That's happened to him before- quite a bit, actually, when you consider the time he spent in fugitive recovery. I don't understand why this time was different from the others."

"Dr. Saunders believes Don's state of mind prior to the assault is the reason he's reacting so badly," Alan said truthfully. "I told her Don was already upset about that last case he'd worked- the one where those children were kidnapped and murdered. She thinks maybe he hasn't gotten over that yet."

"He _was_ in a bad mood that Friday." Charlie hung his head guiltily. "I left too much to chance that night. I should have gone to the Bureau and picked Don up, _made_ him come home with me. Then none of this would have happened."

"No, Charlie," Alan put his arm around his shoulders and drew him near. "We can't blame ourselves. Don's been heading down this dark path for a long time. We've tried to keep him from it, but fate intervened and hurtled him down it despite our best efforts. Try to believe it's not your fault."

"I guess," Charlie shrugged his shoulders.

"Good."

"Dad." Charlie knew it was pointless, but he wanted to make one last effort to see Don. "If Don's not making any progress, then maybe I won't make him worse…maybe I can only make things better."

"I want to believe that, Charlie. But Don has made it clear that he doesn't want to see you."

"So you asked?"

"Of course I did. A long time ago, when he first went into the hospital, I brought you up then. I wanted you here with me…I needed you here with me. Everything that Don is going through…it's tearing me apart."

"But you won't let me…"

"No, Charlie. It would make things easier on me but I don't know what your presence will do to Don. And I can't take the chance that you'll only make matters worse, especially after he's already made it clear that he doesn't want you to know he is here."

Alan pulled away, stood up, noted the time on his watch. "Charlie, I won't shut you out completely. I'll call you everyday and let you know how he's progressing." Taking in Charlie's depressed appearance, he added, "and I'll ask him again if he'll see you."

Nodding his head in final acceptance that he couldn't see Don, Charlie told Alan, "If I can't help Don, I want to at least help you. Promise me you'll come home sometime this week and take a break. You look like you're about to collapse."

"I'll see if I can, Charlie, but I can't make any promises. Look, we'll talk about this tomorrow. Right now, I have to leave. If I don't sign in by eight, I won't be able to spend the night."

Suddenly raising his face, Charlie asked, "You're spending the night with Don? He's actually letting you?"

"Charlie, I've spent every night of the past week with Don. I don't even have a hotel room anymore."

"But Don doesn't allow people to keep an eye on him like that," Charlie said, astounded.

"I know, Charlie. Your brother isn't the same person he was before. Honestly, right now I don't know who he is."

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After signing in for the night, Alan shuffled down the hospital corridor, everyone and everything around him a blur as he thought about what he'd just done. He hated sending Charlie away, wanted desperately to have his comforting body by his side. The further he went into the depth of the hospital, the harder it was for him to walk, to breath, to move, the air pressing down on him thickly, making his actions tired and slow.

"Excuse me," a voice sounded as Alan bumped into a figure. Shaking his head to refocus on his surroundings, Alan apologized.

"Didn't see you there."

"That's quite alright."

It took a moment for Alan to realize a hand was being held out to him. "Sorry," he said again and then shook the man's hand. "I'm a little tired."

"A little?" the man remarked. "I think you underestimate your condition."

Alan smiled, wiped a hand over his forehead. "You're probably right. I have a son who could quantify by exactly how much."

The other man laughed. Alan leaned against the hospital wall, glad to have a few minutes break before returning to Don's room. It seemed the other man might be thinking the same thing as he took up position on the wall opposite Alan, shook his head while reaching towards an inside pocket of his jacket, seemed to think twice about it before withdrawing his hand, empty.

With a sigh, he introduced himself to Alan. "I'm Dr. Miller," he said. "Jody to my friends."

"Alan Eppes- just Alan will do."

"Been coming here long?"

"Just a couple weeks. My son's on the second floor. I don't remember seeing you before. Do you work in this wing?"

"Don't work at this hospital at all- I'm a pediatrician over at St. Mary's. I have a son on the second floor, too. He's been in placement since he was fifteen- been about five years now. Of course, he's only been in this adult section since he turned eighteen. Before that, it was the children's wing."

"Five years…that's a long time."

"Yes, it is." Jody stared down the hall, lost in his thoughts for a few moments.

"It must be hard," Alan continued, "having to come see him for so many years."

"It was at first."

"I understand," Alan agreed.

"I can tell," Jody grinned wanly. "Nothing personal, but you look like death warmed over."

"It's how I feel," Alan admitted.

"And I understand that. But you can't let it eat you alive. You'll be no good for your son if you let that happen." Noting that Alan had been heading into the hospital, not out, Jody asked, "Are you planning to stay the night here?"

"Yes."

"That's not really a good idea. Trust me-you're going to get burnt out and then it will be impossible to come here at all. It happened to me- I haven't been here for almost two years. It's much better to set up a visitation schedule and try to live a normal life around it. That way, you don't have that feeling of suffocation on you all the time."

Alan thanked him for the advice and lifted away from the wall. As he headed towards the elevator, Jody called after him. "Think hard about what I said."

"I will," Alan promised.

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When Alan entered the hospital room, he was surprised to see Jane pulling the covers down on an empty bed. Quickly, he glanced about the room and was relieved to see Don was bundled up in the recliner, a robe loosely about his body, his eyes closed.

"Another nightmare," Jane explained as she walked to Alan. "He insisted on getting up to use the washroom and then wouldn't get back in bed. I think he's been waiting for you."

"I'll get him back in bed," Alan assured her.

"I bet you will," Jane smiled. "But you'll need to call me when you do." She lowered her voice, "those restraints were the only things keeping him from clawing his skin. Push the call button when you're ready."

Alan watched her leave, then he checked on Don. Solid breathing from Don's mouth indicated he was probably asleep, so Alan left him and put his jacket away, stretched and walked across to the window, thought about his conversation with Charlie. Ten minutes later Alan heard movement behind him: the sound of Don stirring from sleep, of springs creaking from him adjusting his position on the chair, of lighter breathing, and finally a ghostly, hesitant voice fogged in the air.

"I know what you're thinking."

Alan stayed near the window, waiting for further words that never arrived. He turned and went to Don, noting he had fallen back asleep.

Two sons, Alan thought as he leaned over and checked the bandage on Don's temple, two sons. Neither one has children yet they think they can possibly know what I'm thinking.

It was impossible.

Until they were fathers themselves, they would have no clue that each time he saw any sadness, anxiety, hurt on their faces, suddenly he was no longer dealing with two adult men but with the two little boys who used to come running to him, wide-eyed and tearful, holding out scrapes and boo-boos to be kissed, bowing down wild-haired heads to be ruffled and assured, slipping into his lap to be held.

Reflexively, Alan kissed Don on the head and ran a hand through his hair. Then he returned to the window, gazing at the growing night.

The sound of a waking child came once again.

"I know what you're thinking," Don murmured.

Alan kept his eyes on the window.

"What am I thinking?"

"Each time," Don rasped, "each time you look at me, when you see what…w-what I let them do to me…and w-when I lose all…all control."

_Yes? Donny._

"You're thinking, just…just like when I…I entered the Academy…"

_No..._

"Y-your wondering to…to yourself…"

_No, Donny, no._

"You're wondering…where did I go wrong?"

The words sliced through to Alan's core, deep into the pit of his stomach. Every thought and emotion that had come to his mind ever since he'd first laid eyes on his damaged son, he'd coiled them there and packed them down tight, put a thick latch over them. But Don's words sprung them loose, and thus freed, they raged through him.

Alan began to shake.

Three weeks spent by Don's side trying to support him when he could barely stand himself. Yet, somehow, some action, maybe a slip of the tongue, a momentary look- Alan had no idea what it could have been, but he had, _must have_, done something that conveyed the idea that he blamed Don for the rape and all the pain that had come forth from it.

Don's words flew in front of Alan's face, a strong swarm that left a buzzing in his ears and blackened the window before him. Alan gripped the edge of the window to keep from dropping to the floor, the turmoil of the words gouging a hole in his chest, taking the breath from his lungs and he was suffocating again. More than ever Alan wished he hadn't sent Charlie away. But it was too late to correct that, too late for any repairs. Don was sitting behind him, lost, miserable, and ashamed. If there was anyone who was responsible for that, anyone who should heft that blame, it was Alan, the only person Don had relied upon and Alan had failed him.

Failed him as a father.

The sobs came quickly. Sticking a fist in his mouth, Alan sucked hard, tried to stem their flow, and was horrified that Don would see him, would completely crumble from the additional guilt of his father's misery. Alan knew it would be impossible to keep Don from knowing what his words had done to him, the pain they had caused- not if he stayed where he was. Though Alan's face was away from Don, his body betrayed his emotions- it was twisted and wrecked, wavering on its feet. Alan took a step backwards, tried to think where the door was so he could flee.

But he was blocked from behind, a warm form suddenly lying across his back.

Two arms serpentine around his waist.

Two hands loosely weaved in front of him.

A soft cheek rested on his left shoulder blade.

Alan pulled the fist from his mouth, let out a short, harsh cry before dropping his hands to his stomach and entwining his fingers with Don's, leaning against the heat of his son's body, enveloped by it.

No words were necessary. Alan knew an apology when he felt one.

They stood there, Alan supporting Don's weight as he had since the rape. Yet never had the elder man felt stronger. The tears dried on Alan's face and he closed his eyes, relished the moment while he could.

"Dad." The word floated into Alan's ear.

"It's okay Donny." Alan massaged Don's hand, rubbed his knuckles.

"Dad," Don said again, his lips moving against the fabric of Alan's shirt. "I think I'm going crazy, Dad."

"No, Donny," Alan assured him, "Don't think that."

Don remained silent, his breathing becoming heavier. Alan was afraid Don was falling asleep, so he carefully maneuvered around and slipped an arm under Don's, hefted his weight then helped him over and into a sitting position on the bed. Alan took off Don's robe, pulled him forward so he could slip it fully off before shifting him under the covers and drawing them up.

He put a hand around Don's neck and lightly rubbed.

"Dad."

"I'm here, Donny."

Don licked his lips and cleared his throat. "I think I'm going crazy."

Alan pinched the bridge of his nose, cleared away the last of his tears. "They're flashbacks, Donny. They'll go away in time."

"It's…it's more than that. _Other things_."

"Donny, I don't understand what you're talking about."

"I don't either. I'm…I'm all confused."

"Maybe," Alan gently suggested, "maybe you should talk to Dr. Saunders. I bet she'll understand."

"What if she says I _am_ going crazy?"

"She won't Donny. I promise she won't."

With the ensuing silence, Alan was satisfied Don had fallen asleep. Alan went to the bathroom and got ready for bed, decided to keep on his t-shirt and jeans, pressed the call button for the nurse to come strap in Don, readied the recliner so he could lie on it, and then dropped into it with a grunt. He was just starting to snore when Don whispered to him across the room.

"Dad?"

Alan blinked his eyes to wake. "I'm here, Donny," he said groggily.

"I think…I think maybe I'm afraid."

"I know, Donny. But I'm here if you need me."

Alan waited patiently for a reply.

"Dad."

"I'm here, Donny."

"I'll try, Dad. If it makes you feel better, I'll talk to Dr. Saunders."

Alan sat up on his side, leaning on his elbow. "Donny…" Alan tried to protest.

"Its okay, Dad."

"Donny, you need to talk to Dr. Saunders so you can get better, not because you feel guilty about me."

"I know, Dad." Don's voice sounded strained. "But I can't. Not…not right now. I can't do it for myself. But for you…I can do it for you."

Don's final words were spoken so quietly they were almost absorbed by the night.

"At least, I promise I'll try."


	15. Chapter 15

Charlie spent the weekend in the garage working on his cognizant emergence theory.

There was nothing else for him to do.

He'd first approached his blackboards with an eraser in hand, had swiped it cleaned and placed down the first number for an algorithm to determine the possibilities of what might be afflicting Don, what might save him, his heart and soul continuing to swim with the desire to aide his brother.

But surprisingly, he had stopped.

Having worked with the Bureau and the complexities of human behavior, Charlie believed he was no longer the same man who had gotten lost in an unsolvable problem when his mother was dying. Though he still believed everything was numbers, he now knew two things: he didn't want to become lost in that world of P v NP a second time, and that, in addition to numbers, some things were also comprised of unknown variables, unobtainable by even his genius mind.

Like those variables that comprised his brother.

Though he'd attempted it before, Charlie was aware that Don was too complex for him to write down into a simple formula, especially now, when the data Charlie had about his current condition was so limited.

So instead of working on solving Don, Charlie tamed the wild emotions that had driven him to confront his father and chose what he thought was a more realistic and mature path: he accepted, at least for the time being, his own inability to help his brother and began working on something else, something that would occupy his mind but not keep it from being available if needed.

Thus, Charlie worked on his new theory from three in the morning Saturday till early afternoon, trying to avoid thinking of his personal failure to save Don, first the night of Alan's party, then at the hospital. He pushed aside a slowly emerging belief that he was becoming a useless part of his brother's life.

It almost worked.

But by Saturday afternoon, he was pacing the floor of his living room, waiting for his father to call; irked once again that he had such little access to his brother, wanting to be able to help. When the phone finally rang, he'd almost dropped the receiver on the floor in his eagerness to answer it.

"Dad, how is he?"

Hesitation blew through the phone.

"What's wrong?" Charlie demanded.

"Nothing," Alan answered quickly, "I mean, nothing serious-at least, nothing in Don's condition."

"These cryptic phrases you keep using are beginning to bug me," Charlie replied. He leaned against the arm of the couch and impatiently tapped a leg up and down.

"Something's changed for the worse in my relationship with Don," Alan tried to explain, "I think a matter of trust."

"Trust? Don doesn't trust you?"

"No, he does." Charlie heard Alan lament a sigh. "At least, he says he does. Only last night, when I went back to his room, Don said I blamed him for what he was going through, like I believe he did something to put himself in the hospital."

Charlie's leg stopped moving and he stiffened. "You didn't say something to make him think that- did you?'

"No, Charlie, of course I…"

"Nothing you might have let slip?" Charlie pressed, "I mean, sorry Dad, but sometimes you're really good at making us feel guilty with just a look."

Charlie waited for a reply, but their appeared to be empty space on the other end of the phone.

"Dad?"'

"Charlie…" A slight sob broke through Alan's voice and Charlie realized the damage his words had caused. They had just discussed this issue the previous day in regards Charlie and how bad he felt for not getting Don to come home the night of the assault.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Charlie rushed through, "I didn't mean it. I don't know why I asked you that; it was…cruel…a-and insensitive. I…I guess I'm just worried about Don."

"Its okay, Charlie." Breathing heavily, Alan continued, "I wondered about it myself- all night, actually, so first thing this morning Don and I ironed out the problem. At least, I hope we did."

"You're not sure?"

"No…no I'm not. I thought with Don currently so vulnerable that his emotions were easier to read…but now…I don't know, Charlie. This subject, it... it came out of nowhere; I felt like I was blindsided. How can I know…How can I know what he's really thinking when he was holding back on something like that…and me- I didn't have a clue?"

"It's always been impossible to know what Don's thinking," Charlie quietly pointed out, "you've been able to deal with that before."

"Yeah, Charlie, but it's different this time. I was worried you would hurt him with a few careless words, but now…I'm afraid it's me who might be hurting him. If he thought I was blaming him- if he still thinks that way...Charlie, it _must_ have caused him a lot of pain…might still be causing it. I don't…I don't want to hurt my son."

When Charlie heard Alan's voice crack, he felt the urge to rush to the hospital again. Instead, he stood up and began to wander the house, use up some of that spontaneous energy, and offered what help he could over the phone.

"Dad, you can't do this to yourself."

Alan took a deep breath. "I know, Charlie. I need to be strong for Don."

"No, Dad, not just for Don. You can't push this aside and not deal with it. _Listen _to me- whatever Don feels or thinks, it's because he's all messed up. He can't really believe you blame him for being sick."

"I don't know, Charlie. I want to believe you but…if you could have seen the look on his face…"

_Yes, Dad, if I could have only seen the look on his face._

"Charlie, he looked like he was in agony."

"Dad, you're going to have to trust me on this: _it is not you_. I might add that if you start focusing on yourself as the root of Don's problems, it'll keep you guys from solving what's really bugging him."

No further noise came from the phone and Charlie wondered briefly if they had become disconnected. Finally, Alan sighed again, though it sounded to Charlie as if this time it was in relief.

"You know, Charlie, I hadn't thought of that."

"Well, I _am_ a genius in general; math just happens to be my specialty."

"Seems like you're beginning to branch out into human relations," Alan chuckled.

"Yeah, sure, Dr. Charles Eppes, psychologist extraordinaire- Dr. Phil better watch out."

"Hmm, don't know about that, Charlie. It'd be hard to take on a big guy from Texas like that- though, I have to admit, you've got him on the hair."

Charlie shared a short laugh with his father. He was glad he had been able to make him feel better. Still, there was another matter he wanted to discuss.

"Dad, um, I hate to remind you, but you were supposed to ask Don if I could see him."

"About that, Charlie…"

He knew the answer before it was given. "Dad, you can't do this to me." _Damn! Stop making it sound like he's doing things to hurt you and Don._ "I mean," Charlie's words rushed forward in an attempt to placate his father's guilt before it could rise again, "it's okay, I can handle this, but why didn't you ask him?"

"Because, Charlie, he's agreed to participate in therapy- individual and group."

"I thought he was already attending the individual."

"He is, but he doesn't say anything but 'yes' and 'no' when Dr. Saunders asks him questions- and he doesn't do that very often. Considering he participated quite well in his therapy with Dr. Bradford last year, it seems to me he should be talking more."

"It's too bad Dr. Bradford has moved on and can't be Don's therapist."

"Yes." _Though I don't know if Don would open up to a man, would ever admit what happened…_ "Uh, I think Don felt bad about what he said to me last night, so he's trying to make it up to me by doing better in therapy. At least, that's the impression I got from our talk this morning."

Charlie finally stopped walking around his house. He had inadvertently found himself back in the garage. Dropping to the old couch in the middle of the room, he asked, "Is that good for Don? You know, for him to be making himself talk just to make you happy?"

He could practically hear his father contemplating this in his mind. "I'm not sure, Charlie. I just know he hasn't made any real progress since we came here. I guess I don't care anymore what makes him start talking about his problems, as long as he talks. Dr. Saunders says he can't get better until he does."

"Okay," Charlie nodded, "whatever works. Just…just do me a favor and when you think he can handle it…"

"I'll ask, Charlie. I promise I will."

"Thanks, Dad. And don't forget about coming home, too. It really sounds like you need a break."

"I don't know, Charlie…"

"Dad, you told me yesterday not to blame myself for Don's, uh, accident, but you don't seem to mind blaming yourself- especially now, after what Don said to you last night. I may be wrong, but I think your perspective of the situation is getting skewed. I know you don't want to leave Don, but taking a step back might be able to help you keep things straight, think more clearly."

"You may be right, Charlie. I promise- I'll consider what you've said."

They said their good-byes and hung up. Charlie put his phone to the side, disappointed he would not be able to see Don. Being kept from his brother and all of the information about his condition was making Charlie anxious; he found it difficult to sit still, horrible thoughts coming to his mind about what Don might be going through. Unable to discard them without replacements, Charlie went to his boards and began working again, forcing the worry from his brain and replacing it with his ever-comforting numbers.

No P v. NP, just his new theory.

Later, Charlie was too consumed in his work to hear the phone ring a second time that day.

And a third, then a fourth and fifth; he failed to hear it ringing on and off all day Sunday, too.

By Sunday evening, Amita finally gave up, leaving two messages on the answering machine- one a request that Charlie call her, another saying she'd see him the next day.

Neither sounded very hopeful.

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Early Monday morning, the FBI bullpen was raging with human activity.

"So, any news on Don?"

Colby stood against his desk, Megan and David sitting in chairs nearby. The young agent was addressing Charlie, who had just entered his cubicle area.

"Not much to tell," Charlie replied, dropping his computer satchel on the desk beside Colby. "When I saw my dad Friday, he didn't tell me any more than we already knew- except he confirmed that Don doesn't want anyone to know where he is or why- which means we're going to be out of the loop for a while longer."

"That's surprising," David commented, "I mean, I understand Don not wanting us to know. But you- that hardly makes sense. You're his brother."

"Yeah, well, I've been through this conversation already," Charlie noted sardonically, "and I really don't feel like going through it again. My dad says it would be better to let Don decide when he's ready to let me in on everything, and I guess all I can do is accept it."

"We already agreed that that goes for all of us," Megan said, looking pointedly in her team members' direction. Colby and David glanced at the floor guiltily. Noticing their behavior, Megan eyed them suspiciously. "Right?"

Before they could respond, Charlie asked, "So, why'd you call me here this time?" He began flipping through a few of the files stacked on Colby's desk.

"Charlie," Megan began slowly, the team members' attention diverted back to the mathematician,"we didn't call you in."

"Huh?" he replied, raising his eyes to theirs, just as puzzled as they appeared to be. "Well, the receptionist left me a message to meet you guys here first thing this morning- if it wasn't any of you, who was it?"

"It was _me_."

All four people turned abruptly, staring into the stern face of Assistant Director Merrick, who had quietly appeared behind them, hands on his hips. "I had my secretary call you in this morning," he told Charlie, "I wanted to speak to you in person." He looked at Colby, Megan and David, who were all suddenly standing up straight as if at attention. "And you three, too. Meet me at my office- right now!"

Then Merrick turned on his heels and strode away.

Charlie led the way through the bullpen, Colby following, Megan and David bringing up the rear. Just before entering Merrick's office, Megan grabbed David's arm and whispered heatedly into his ear, "What did you and Granger do?"

David just shook his head, holding the door open for Megan, allowing her to enter the lion's den first, wondering himself what he and Colby had done by visiting Walker.

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Monday morning, Don sat on the edge of his bed, looking out the window of his hospital room.

It had been a long weekend.

It had been a longer night.

His father had been there with him through it all. The twists and turns of his body, the scratching of his nails, the screaming that he'd been unable to stop until his throat was hoarse, still painful when he swallowed, the drain he fell down and out of which he could not climb, his father a crooked old hanger bent out of shape from his own restless nights, who still, somehow, was able to bend down deep into Don's clogged view of reality and drag him up out of it.

Or so it seemed.

Don's thoughts wandered to Saturday morning, when Alan had talked to him, a long speech about how he didn't blame Don for being raped, that if he ever said or did anything to make him feel that way Don should make sure to tell him right away.

Don had hugged him tightly, this one more clinging than the apologetic one he'd given Alan the night before.

"I don't know why I said what I did," Don had confessed, "some things, they just pop into my head, I don't know why."

"It must have been building up inside you," Alan had replied, refusing to let him go. "Don't let that happen again. Promise me that you'll let me know how you're feeling so we can deal with it."

Don had listened, had nodded into Alan's chest.

But he hadn't been able to make that promise to his dad.

Even now, three days later, waiting with nothing to do until he had to go to therapy, Don knew he would never be able to tell his dad about his feelings because, quite simply, he really didn't have any. It was impossible to explain that he didn't actually _feel_ his father blamed him; that topic had just come up, out of nowhere, and Don had felt compelled to say what he had.

He didn't know why, though. The actual emotion hadn't been there- just the thought, bursting out of him.

Don didn't really know why he was saying or doing anything he did. For a long time now, he'd had no control over his mind; he'd long ago lost control of his body. Now, they seemed to be working in tandem, crazy thoughts forming in his mind like a storm, clouds of crazy ideas gathering until without warning they overfilled his head and...how many more times would they come pouring out of his mouth, just as they had the night before, beyond his control, making no more sense to him than they did to the people around him?

More and more, Don was convinced of what he'd told his father- he was truly going crazy.

Only, though he said he feared it, he had only said that statement because he thought he _should _feel that way. Impossibly, he felt nothing about it, one way or another. Don didn't understand how that could be. You couldn't be afraid of something if you had no feelings- _could you_? Don scratched at his arm, trying to pick off the layer of dirt that continued to plague his body. If he had to be rid of feelings, he wished it were the physical sensations that had ceased to exist.

But it wasn't working that way.

Inside, he was void. Outside, he was oversensitive, every detail of his surroundings caving in on him, threatening to _touch._..

Don crossed his arms, hugged his body. None of it made any sense, none of it seemed real, not even himself. The only thing Don could honestly be positive of was that he was completely and utterly confused.

Don stood up and walked to the window, allowing the limited rays of the sun to drape over his face. He had been thinking on and off all weekend that his dad was right, that he should try to talk more about what was happening. Of course, after Alan had broken down on Friday night, Don had promised he would start talking to the psychologist. He'd wanted to offer his dad something in compensation for the harsh words he'd said.

Only, now, minutes from when he'd be attending therapy, Don wondered if he could keep that promise.

"It's time for your appointment," Alan said, coming into the room and standing beside Don. "Ready to go?"

There was no answer for that.

There was no answer for anything that was happening in his life.

Don turned from the sun and walked with his father, out of his room and down the hall, heading towards Dr. Saunders.

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Charlie sat a little apart from the rest of the team, behind them and towards the corner of the room. He did not share the same apprehension as they did; his thoughts strayed to Don, his hopes that the meeting with Merrick might reveal more information about the actual crime that had been perpetrated against his brother.

His hopes were soon dashed.

Merrick sat stiffly in his seat, shuffling papers in front of him, making the three agents in front of him shift nervously in their seats. He did not start speaking until he was satisfied all three of them were sitting on the furthermost edges of their proverbial seats.

"L.A.P.D. has reported to me that an unauthorized user accessed their files Friday night."

The assistant director looked up, his eyes boring into Colby's, David's, and Megan's, one by one. They froze in response.

"According to P.C. Rodriguez, his personal administrative files were accessed- though it appears none of them were searched very thoroughly. He got the impression that this intruder had not found what he was looking for." With a fierce growl, Merrick suddenly bellowed, "Or should I say _they _didn't find what they were looking for?"

The three agents jumped involuntarily. Then they glanced at one another, seeking reassurance that they were in this together. Receiving an almost imperceptible nod from her team members, Megan took the lead.

"Sir, we were concerned about our leader," she said, sitting upright with a stoic expression on her face, "and our friend." Megan left it at that, hoping, like Charlie, that maybe he would fill them in on the case. She felt like Colby and David- the treatment that Don was receiving was personal, but she wouldn't mind knowing more about the perpetrators who had caused him harm, revenge having reared its head in her thoughts more than a few times over the weekend.

Merrick tapped his fingers on his desk, thinking. After long moments, he shook his head, sighing. "Agent Reeves- Sinclair…Granger," he said softly, "I understand your concern for your boss, but the case was purposely taken out of the Bureau's hands so he could recover privately, as _he_ has requested. I would think you'd have more respect for him than to intrude on that privacy."

Charlie's head shot up.

_Intrude…_

It was the same word his father had used. Since when had he become an intruder into his brother's life?

Before he could go further with that thought, Megan spoke again, guilt lacing every word. "Sir, we had no idea where he was."

"Yes…mmm, yes. Which brings to mind the question of why you began looking in the first place?"

David cleared his throat and gave a short tug of his tie. "I'm afraid that I was responsible for bringing my team members into this whole situation. The policeman I was working with told me about a Fed getting a beat-over a few weeks back and I convinced them to help me find out if it was Don- uh, Agent Eppes." Sitting forward, David added, "I am solely responsible for everything that followed."

Megan and Colby heartily disagreed, arguing with David as he tried again to put the entire blame on himself. Merrick raised a hand, silencing their protests.

"Enough already!"

The team members hastily composed themselves, remaining silent and rigid in their seats as Merrick lowered his voice to a normal tone and volume, informing them, "I understand your concern for Agent Eppes, but it does not excuse the fact that you abused your investigative authority on two occasions. First, by hacking into the files of the police commissioner; hacking, might I remind you, is illegal."

No one responded to this accusation. They did not want to admit that they had used Charlie's clearance to get into the files, hoping to protect him.

"And second," Merrick continued, "by accessing the medical records of Agent Eppes, which violated his civil rights under the HIPAA laws."

"We didn't look at his private records, sir," Colby quietly interrupted.

"Dammit!" Merrick slammed a fist on his desk, making his visitors jump once again. "None of you should know where Don is. I don't care if all you did was look at the cover of his medical reports- _you violated his right to privacy!"_

Merrick settled back in his seat, recomposing himself. One by one, the assistant director met the embarrassed stares of each of the agents sitting across from him. They remained stoic, waiting for the consequences they knew were about to be handed down. "If it were up to me, I'd fire the lot of you." The agents' eyes widened. "However," Merrick grumbled, "we are shorthanded as it is and you are, unfortunately, viable resources in the Bureau, so I am forced to retain you."

They all released a long breath of relief.

"As it is, I have decided to reform your team, with Agent Reeves taking the lead, at least for the time being. All of you have finished your previous assignments, I assume."

"Just need to file the last of the paperwork," Colby and David interjected.

"Fine, then you can go back to doing what you do best- there are at least five new cases waiting for you." Not sure if this was a dismissal, the team members waited. Finally, Merrick added, "Oh, one last thing. You will each receive a formal reprimand in your personnel files- and I must warn you, if anything like this happens again, _that reprimand will become a formal request for resignation."_

Nodding in silent acceptance, the agents left the office. Megan glanced at Charlie, indicating he should follow suit, which he did; but Merrick called to him when he was almost through the door. "Professor, one moment please."

Charlie shrugged his shoulders at the questioning looks of his friends and stepped back inside the office, politely shutting the door behind him and then taking a seat in front of the assistant director.

"Can I help you, sir?" he replied, looking at the other man with baleful eyes.

Five minutes later, Charlie left the office, striding agitatedly towards the elevators. Colby, David, and Megan sighted him and ran to catch up.

"What's wrong?" Megan gasped, tugging on his arm. "Did he give you more news about Don?"

"No," Charlie said through gritted teeth, "he informed me that my security clearance with the Bureau _and _the NSA has been revoked till further notice."

"You gotta be kidding me!" Colby retorted, "Just because you wanted to know if your own brother was alright?"

Charlie stabbed the button to go down and then turned, dropping back against the wall. "Apparently, if I would violate my own brother's rights, what's to guarantee I wouldn't do the same thing to a complete stranger?"

"I'm sorry, man," David told him, "I wasn't thinking when I brought all of you guys into this."

Charlie threw up his arms in protest. "No, don't apologize. Finding out about Don was more important to me than consulting for the NSA _or _the Bureau."

Megan frowned. "Wait a minute- they fired you as a consultant?"

"Yeah, like they were punishing me or something," Charlie chuckled mirthlessly, "Like I'd want to work here without my brother." Before the agents could respond, the elevator arrived and Charlie stepped in, the recent events quickly forgotten, his mind on Don once again.


	16. Chapter 16

Alan sat in a chair, waited impatiently for Don to finish his session with Dr. Saunders. It was unusual for him to be impatient, but the doctor had requested that they speak afterwards and Alan was set on the idea that it could only be bad news.

He tossed aside a magazine he'd picked up, and then he emulated his youngest son, pacing to release some of his nervous energy.

It was a little over a week since Don had promised to participate in therapy. From what Alan had observed, Don had not kept his word. Each day that he had picked Don up from Dr. Saunders, Alan had mouthed the question "Any better?" Her reply every day had been a silent shake of the head and a sympathetic look on her face.

Group had gone worse; Don had yet to attend. He tried; Alan admitted Don tried to go. They would leave Dr. Saunders, head back to his room and sit until lunch, neither of them saying very much. Then early afternoon they'd leave the room, as if they had a destination they truly believed they would reach, heading down the hall with that goal in mind, turn and walk to the room where group was held- then, to Alan's disappointment, they would continue walking right on by, around a couple corners and straight back to Don's room.

When they passed, Alan had tried to get Don to at least look at the people inside, hoping his son would see that they were ordinary people, no one to be afraid of, just like him. But every day was the same, Don moving to the wall opposite the room where the therapy sessions were held, his eyes trailing some unseen path in front of him, his body moving along it at a steady pace, ignoring the friendly smile of the therapist standing outside, her gentle greeting falling on deaf ears.

The only thing Alan could do was follow.

But it was tempting.

He knew it was.

Alan wanted to grab Don by the shoulders and push him inside, shut the door and lean against it, make Don stay inside with the others, as if entering would make him better.

But Alan also knew better.

He remembered that the choice had to be Don's and so, even though it hurt him to do so, he did not interfere with Don's decision to pass by. And he was careful to make any comments or gestures that could make Don develop feelings of guilt for doing so.

If nothing else, Alan knew he could do that for his son.

At least, he hoped that was what he was doing.

With Don's continued silence, what more could he do but hope that the things he did were right? After all, he could not ask Don; it was still pointless.

The door to Dr. Saunders office flipped open and Don came shuffling out. Alan stood still. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Don sit down, but Alan's attention was on the office door.

"Mr. Eppes," a calm voice beckoned to him from within.

Alan turned to say a few words to Don, but realized his son was off someplace in his mind all by himself again, so instead, Alan turned back around and headed into the Saunders office, gently shutting the door behind him before slumping into a seat in front of her desk, already tired before they began.

"I'm glad we could talk again, Mr. Eppes," Saunders said, her arms folded over on her desk. "I think we have a few things to discuss."

"You know, you've been telling me about Don's progress every week since we've come here," Alan commented, "and every day you've indicated that he's not making any. I hope…I hope this formal meeting isn't more bad news."

"No, Mr. Eppes. Not necessarily _bad_ news. I didn't mean to make you nervous." She smiled to reassure him. "It's just that we have a bit more to cover than my usual 'he's not talking' that comprises my usual update."

"Oh, well, then okay." Alan tried to believe her, asking her hopefully, "So, maybe he made some progress today?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Eppes."

"Yes, I suspected not. He looked the same when he came out of your office."

"I know, Mr. Eppes- and I'm sorry that I can't tell you anything different. However, I would like to discuss with you Don's condition and a new course of treatment that we would like him to start. Dr. Wyndham and I feel positive it will help Don in his healing process."

"I've heard those words before, when Dr. Wyndham talked about this hospital and therapy, but I haven't seen any improvement in my son. Forgive me, but I can't imagine what else you could…" Alan suddenly sat forward. "Unless…Are you _finally_ talking about medication?"

Dr. Saunders stiffened. "Mr. Eppes, I truly hope you don't think we were holding out on Don's treatment. I thought Dr. Wyndham had made it quite clear to you our reasons for not starting pharmacological therapy. Mainly, because Don had to first finish the series of antiretrovirals he had been placed on due to concern about HIV. _And _because we needed time to develop a proper diagnosis so we knew exactly what we would be treating. Or am I mistaken about her informing you of those facts?"

"No," Alan said, "I guess I've grown impatient waiting for you to try something new."

"I understand," she replied, "And I want you to understand… I mean, Dr. Wyndham and I _both_ want you to understand the reasoning behind our decisions."

Alan nodded. "And I appreciate, as always, that you have kept me abreast of everything that is going on. I guess my frustration is beginning to show more than usual."

"More than understandable," she smiled again. "Now, let's start with therapy. As you know, Don does not speak during individual, except when he answers _yes _or _no._ And as for group, well, Dr. Evans did tell me you and Don have been coming by the past week or so, but he has yet to enter the room."

"Yes, she's right. I think Don is trying but…"

"But he doesn't seem _capable_ of entering?"

"That's about it," Alan sighed.

"I would expect being around other people is still too difficult," Dr. Saunders noted. "Other than you, me, and a few hospital staff, Don has had very few interactions with other people. " She looked down at a pad in front of her, each page filled with notes she had taken during her sessions with Don. Her eyes skimming the summary she had written on the top page, Dr. Saunders began to read.

"Don has experienced the physically and mentally traumatic event of multi-attacker rape. The symptoms he has experienced as a result include-but are not limited to- repeated and persistent re-experiencing of the event in the form of sensory and auditory hallucinations; detailed dreams and dissociative flashbacks lasting up to an hour typically, even with intervention from medical personnel; distressing recollections of the emotions he felt at the time of the event, giving him an increased sense of arousal, seen in his heightened startle response time and inability to concentrate and/or complete tasks previously interested in; and a decrease in participation in previously enjoyed activities, avoidance of others, avoidance of events or thoughts associated with the event, and a flat affect. These symptoms have been present for more than four weeks since the time of the traumatic event."

Dr. Saunders raised her eyes to Alan. "I have observed all of these symptoms in Don. They are taken from the DSM-IV's description of a person experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder, and PTSD is what Dr. Wyndham and I have diagnosed Don to be suffering from."

Alan stared blankly at Dr. Saunders. "Post-traumatic stress…that's what soldiers experienced after the Vietnam War."

"Yes, but PTSD is not limited to war veterans. It can occur after any traumatic event, including rape. PTSD has four criteria: re-experiencing, avoidance of thoughts about or reminders of the event, and hyper-arousal, which we see in his high startle response. The fourth criterion is that these must all occur _during the same time and last at least four weeks. _Don meets these criteria, plus the additional criterion of _social _avoidance, which is associated with Rape Related PTSD. "

After thinking about this a few minutes, Alan asked, "I'm still a bit confused. I know Don was exposed to a, um, traumatic event. But I thought in order to have PTSD he'd have had to experience it more than once. I mean, other than reoccurring flashbacks."

"In some cases," Dr. Saunders agreed, "that is true. It depends on the person. In Don's case, we know that he was already in some sort of emotional turmoil before the rape occurred. Add to that the fact he was given drugs…clearly, his defenses were down and he was at his weakest…"

"And the rape was the straw that broke the camel's back," Alan finished for her, reflecting that Dr. Wyndham had told him the same basic thing: Don was susceptible to a mental "breakdown" at the time of the rape.

"You are also making an incorrect assumption," Dr. Saunders continued, "when limiting the number of times Don has been exposed to a traumatic event to this one time."

"I don't understand."

"As a law enforcement officer, Don has been exposed to all kinds of trauma- every confrontation he has with a criminal element can result in death, and occassionally does…indeed, considering all that they must face on the job, it would not be remarkable for a particularly stressful and fearful occurrence to cause an officer of the law to suffer from PTSD."

Alan blinked back tears. "I never thought of the rape as being the last in a series of traumatic events in Don's life. I mean, I understood what you and Dr. Wyndham said about his emotional state of mind beforehand contributing to his current problems. But the rape…I thought it, I don't know, something unusual in Don's life, out of the ordinary. The way you put it, it's like he's been attacked over and over again his entire career."

"In a way, he has- at least mentally and emotionally. What an agent goes through on the job can affect them more than they let on." Dr. Saunders' voice held notes of compassion. "I'm sure Don has tried to shield his family from the worst aspects of it."

Alan knew she was right- Don did try to protect his family, but in more ways than one. Charlie had told him that Don had confessed in their joint therapy session that he was afraid that he was using his brother to solve cases. It had come as a surprise to Charlie, who had reassured Don that he loved working with him. Still, Alan now wondered if that was the reason for Don refusing to let Charlie visit, that maybe he thought he'd be _using _Charlie if he asked him for help. "I just wish I knew what he is thinking," Alan finally said, "What was bothering him before, and what it's doing to him now."

"As well as I; but without him talking, it is really impossible to know those things."

"I was thinking the same thing myself before coming into your office," Alan admitted.

"Yes, well, that is exactly why we need to start him on medication- until Don can tell us what is wrong, we can only speculate. And as I've said repeatedly, if he does not talk, he will not benefit from therapy. So, we need to do something to help...let's say, um, give him the _energy_ to get better."

Alan nodded.

"Now," she said, "as far as medication goes, there is none designed _specifically_ for PTSD."

"So what are your options?"

"We will need to treat one of the underlying conditions of Don's PTSD, specifically, major depressive disorder. As for most of the other aspects of PTSD-they _are _best addressed by therapy. Though, when Don is finally able to tell us what else is going on in his mind, we may determine he needs other medications."

"That's fine with me, but Don doesn't like medication- I suppose you've already discussed this with him."

"I always consult with him before I talk to you. As for discussion- well, that requires _two _people talking. Truth be told, I simply informed him and he made no protest. Now, we are going to start him on an SSRI- you have probably seen these advertised on television for treatment of depression. They can take up to nine weeks before we see their full effect…"

"Nine weeks!" Alan moaned. "That's over two months."

"_Their full effect,_" Dr. Saunders emphasized, "we _may _see minor changes in Don's behavior within a week."

"Are you sure" Alan asked, trying to remain positive. He had, after all, requested they put Don on medication soon after the rape, so he didn't want to thwart them now that they were doing as he had wanted. Still, Dr. Saunders was talking about an awfully long time. "Don is so lifeless…it would feel like nine weeks of watching my son's corpse disintegrate."

"Mr. Eppes," she tried to explain, "I am sure we will see a change much sooner. Dr. Wyndham wouldn't be prescribing it if she or I thought otherwise."

"I guess I'll just have to pray it works quickly."

"Prayer can always help." Dr. Saunders fiddled with the files on her desk. "There are a few other things we need to discuss, Mr. Eppes."

Alan's eyes narrowed. "This doesn't sound good."

"There are just a few minor tasks we must attend to." Dr. Saunders picked up what appeared to be a sheaf of medical forms. "As I said before, Don has finished his previous medication. In two more weeks, we'll perform another HIV test on him, but, as you know, his preliminary results were negative, as were all of the tests we performed for other venereal diseases."

"Yes, thank God for that," Alan whispered.

"Our only concern at this time is the inner lining of his anal cavity." Alan flinched. Sometimes, he could avoid thinking about the details of Don's rape when they discussed other topics. But this subject in particular only served to reinforce _exactly _what had happened to Don. There was no pretending that it had been a simple assault. Dr. Saunders ran her eyes over the forms. "Dr. Wyndham has consulted with hospital staff...I'm afraid that though Don took his last sitz bath the beginning of the week, it appears that he continues to have blood in his stool. To be on the safe side, I'm afraid he's been ordered a proctoscopy- it is similar to a colonoscopy but they will not be going as far inside the rectum…"

"No," Alan cried, horrified, "you can't do that to Don. He can't stand to be touched, not even on the arm. How…how can you suggest putting something up inside him?"

"Mr. Eppes, we need to make sure that all of the larger lacerations have healed. Otherwise, if we let them go, Don may be facing major surgery sometime in the near future."

Alan sank deep into his chair, unable to respond.

"Please," Dr. Saunders started again, "think what is best for Don- fifteen minutes of discomfiture- or a lengthy surgery, and all that it entails after it has been performed. I'm sorry, but the doctor insists will need to have one."

"Okay," Alan gave in. He stayed low in his seat yet still managed to meet her eyes head on. "Okay. What else?"

"We will have to do away with the sedatives Don has been taking every night. The new meds should help ease his overall anxiety, but they won't have the same effect in helping his body go to sleep. So, the nurses will be keeping a closer eye on him at night."

Alan barely nodded.

Dr. Saunders stopped, lifting her eyes and staring across her desk at Alan. He appeared to be focused on the papers in her hands, his eyes staring at them as if she were wielding a knife. Briefly, she wondered if he was doing alright.

Dr. Saunders twisted back and forth in her chair.

She was aware that Alan had not signed up with a support group, nor had he gone home even once since Don had been committed. Nobody had come to visit, either.

Dr. Saunders pondered this.

There was a brother, one Bradford had noted was close to Don and lived with their father.

Where was he? Why wasn't he here?

She would need to ask Don, and if she received no answer from him, ask Alan. In the meantime, her patient needed his father.

"We will start Don on his medication tomorrow, and the nurses will begin taking Don's blood pressure and heart rate every morning, too. They will also be observing Don's behavior more closely, to chart any changes they see. You can be of great service there, Mr. Eppes, as you have been spending so much time with him."

"Should I be looking for anything in particular?" Alan asked thoughtfully.

"Any changes in his behavior, even tiny ones, good or bad."

"Okay, I think I can do that."

"Good, Mr. Eppes. I know Don can count on you. Oh, um, by the way, I must also warn you- during the first two weeks someone is taking an antidepressant, well, it isn't untypical for them to develop suicidal thoughts."

Alan was out of his seat, suddenly energized and outraged. "What the hell are you prescribing my son?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Over a month waiting for medication and their solution was to give his son something to make him commit suicide.

Quickly, Dr. Saunders jumped up and came around her desk, putting a calming hand on Alan's arm. "I promise you, research indicates an increase in suicidal_ thoughts _- not an increase in the attempts of suicide …or…or the successful completion of the act."

"So why are you warning me to keep an eye on Don?" Alan demanded.

"Because I am overly cautious," she assured him, "besides, if Don starts having these thoughts, he will need to talk about them. And if he feels more comfortable bringing the topic up to you, I don't want it to come as a surprise when he does. It will make it much easier for you to handle and it will make it easier for Don to broach the subject if your first response is not to panic."

"And what if he does kill himself, have you considered that?"

"Mr. Eppes, there are cameras throughout this portion of the hospital- including in patients' rooms. Believe me, you will not be the only one keeping an eye on Don."

"But still, how does this help him get better?"

Alan leaned against Dr. Saunders' desk. She joined him, holding on to the edges with long, thin fingers. "Mr. Eppes, the suicidal thoughts only occur in a small portion of cases. And it only lasts one or two weeks. Please believe me, once we are over that small hurtle, you are going to see a vast improvement in Don."

Resigning his argument to her expertise, Alan asked, "And if he doesn't?"

"He will, Mr. Eppes- trust me, he will."

"Nothing has changed, has it? Cause I feel like no matter what you say, all I can really do is hope that you're right."

With nothing else to say, Alan rose and Dr. Saunders walked him to the outer-office. Not surprisingly, Don sat as Alan had left him. After a short good-bye to the therapist, Alan touched Don's shoulder; waited for him to recognize he was there and then they left, heading back to their hospital room.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Don rested, eyes shut but not asleep. His father dozed in a chair nearby.

Don thought about what Dr. Saunders had told him.

Not the pills or her diagnosis, or the side effects he might feel- not even the chance he might think about death more often in the next two weeks.

No, none of those things concerned him. They were shadowy ideas, no basis in his reality; none of her therapy had thus far altered it, so Don gave no weight to her words.

Until a few had captured his attention, and now there was nothing else to think about; it was something he could not avoid. Don squirmed on the bed, as if he were trying to…

He was going to need another physical, already scheduled for the next day.

It frightened him.

He knew it shouldn't.

The staff at the hospital had been nothing but kind to him.

But there were others lurking around the edge of his safety zone and they refused to go away. The physical would open him up, figuratively and literally, allowing them ample opportunity to attack, right in the middle of the day.

It was bad enough at night. The dreams were terrifying, but nightmares were meant to appear at night and Don was more accepting of them for that reason. In the day, though, he fought hard to avoid those things that might cause his mind to slip and his body to get dragged away- for there was something especially obscene about having so much artificial light all around you and still, somehow, being trapped in the dark.

It was unnatural, and brought out a primeval fear in Don.

It was a fear that currently ached in his stomach, ever since Dr. Saunders had mentioned the physical, had kept him from eating but the barest lunch.

Don flipped over to his back, stared up at the ceiling.

Would it be worse? With that kind of access, would they do more to him? What more could that be?

Before Don could find the solutions to those questions, a nurse appeared in the door of his room and indicated it was time for group. He rolled off the bed, heavy in his movements. While he put on his robe, he noted that his father almost didn't wake up, exhausted with his own considerations of things to come. But Alan knew Don wouldn't even _walk _past the therapy room if he was alone, and determined they at least keep that simple routine, he eventually stretched, got a crick out of his neck, then took Don's arm and headed out the door with him, yawning.

The entire way, Don tried, as usual, to talk himself into going to group.

Every day for more than a week, he had failed to listen.

But he tried, concentrating what little energy he had on moving his legs inside.

Tried so hard today that he didn't notice when his father bumped into a person in the hall and stopped to talk. It was actually several minutes before Don realized they were at a standstill.

Anxiously, Don scanned their surroundings.

His father was still right beside him, but he had released Don's arm, gesturing with his hands while he talked to someone who was loudly reminding Alan that he could call him Jody. There was no one else around them, the hallway empty except his group therapist across the wall.

She was smiling at him.

Don immediately dropped his eyes, trying to push in closer to his dad.

"It's nice to see you again," Dr. Evans said softly.

Don tugged on Alan's sleeve, silently begging him _let's go._ Alan glanced at him, gently nodded his head, and then turned back to the other man, no longer speaking to him but waiting for a chance to politely wrap up their conversation.

Dr. Evans moved across the hall towards them and Don instinctively pivoted away, slinking around her, his eyes searching for a place to settle, anywhere away from her. In so doing, he inadvertently looked into the group therapy room.

It only took Don a few seconds to survey the room and take inventory of its contents: a small table against the far wall, an overhead light, six comfortable sitting chairs, and four male occupants, three in street clothes and the other…the other…

Don's eyes went wide.

He stepped forward, standing just inside the frame of the door, all caution put aside as he peered closer at this particular member of their group, all of their chairs gathered in a circle in the center of the room, none of them within arm's reach of each other, this last member a bit further back than the rest of them, his chair almost touching the side wall.

Without thinking, Don stepped into the room and took one of two remaining seats, unable to stop staring at the small frame of the figure sitting across from him- the thin and fragile body topped by a familiar mass of curly, black hair, dark eyes peaking out at Don.

_Charlie..._


	17. Chapter 17

_Charlie…_

Don's stomach lurched uneasily.

Around him, Don was hazily aware that the group members were settling in their seats, greeting each other politely, Dr. Evans closing the door and taking her place as the directing hub of their circle.

Don shut out the small happenstances around him, his attention confusedly focused in front of him on his brother.

_Charlie…_

Don hadn't thought of him in a while.

Not really since he'd first awakened in the hospital the day after the assault.

_Charlie…_

He had missed him then, had looked for him, wondered at his absence, felt a partial emptiness in his heart.

Till _they _came for him, had surged forward and overtaken Don and he was no longer able to think of anything else, anybody else.

Except, once, when his father asked him; Don had thought of Charlie.

Not for long. Nothing stayed in his mind for long. Especially the thought of his brother; his father's question, simple and direct…

_Can I call Charlie, Donny? Can I ask him to come here and help?_

The answer should have been easy

It should have been.

But before Don could open his mouth to say _yes, yes, I miss him, I want him, I need him, Dad…_

_Please_

A sudden, foreign feeling-a _bad feeling_- cascaded through Don's gut outward, paralleling the one he got when _they _came for him, a _bad_ feeling that thrummed along his nerves and left his body with a stark impression of the assault deeply imbedded in his mind, his body, his soul.

_"Don't, Dad, please- I-I'll die if he knows."_

The words had tumbled from his lips like an oath, a promise coming from a conviction of death that Don felt that his brother's presence would work upon him- but he could not explain why.

_Why, Dad, why do I feel this way?_

So his father never called and Charlie never came and slowly, Don ceased to think of his brother, Charlie becoming a specter in Don's mind.

Till today, when the apparition of his brother decided to leave his mind and recompose, take a seat across from Don as a living, breathing, three-dimensional shape with bold edges and solid colors filling in the contours of his body.

_He's an illusion…he must be…_

But Don saw no difference between the physical appearance of his brother and the others in the room.

_We're all ghosts- none of us is real_…

His stomach boiling over from stress, Don scratched distractedly at his arm while he squinted across the room and scrutinized Charlie some more.

_No, not Charlie, _the realization came to Don.

At least, not the Charlie he had last seen. The figure in front of him was definitely not the thirty-year-old brother who Don had interacted with about a month before, the knowledgeable mathematician who helped him solve cases with a confidence that had developed over time and experience, the confident professor who captivated both the minds of learned men and hardened law officers with the same ease.

_Not Charlie, _Don observed, _at least, __not that Charlie_.

But, then again…it _was _Charlie.

Don was certain he was looking at his brother. Not the grown man that Don worked with- no, not _that_ brother.

But the form sitting huddled across from him _was _Charlie, it had to be.

Only, it was a much younger version of him, a manifestation of the boy Don had known so many years ago- once upon a time; a gawky teen with messy curls cascading around his face, tiny and frail, afraid and unsure of himself, currently wrapped in hospital pajamas and an oversized robe much as Don was himself.

Don tried to read the face of this person, this young Charlie. In time, this Charlie became aware of Don's scrutiny and briefly looked at him, large doe eyes speaking back to Don with reverberations of innocence…and loss.

Definitely loss, Don perceived sadly.

_A spirit, _Don determined- _he must not be real. I'm hal__lucinating again, see__ing another specter__ from my __past._

Despondently, Don tried to pull his conscious awareness from the room, Charlie's presence a depressing addition to the growing list of ghosts developing recently in his mind, long forgotten spirits that were increasingly fluttering about him teasingly, time and again, haunting memories of past loss erupting, unbidden, into his life.

"Don…"

A soft but persistent voice beckoned to him, kept his attention on his surroundings. Don turned towards Dr. Evans, blinking questioning eyes at her.

"Would you like to introduce yourself to the group?"

Don hesitated before he took a quick glance around the room. One other person looked back at him, expression set to welcome- not forceful, open, waiting patiently for him to decide his next move; two other people looking over his shoulder, beyond him, their individual personalities absent as they unconsciously tried to blend into their surroundings, disappear.

Don dropped his eyes and tightened his robe around him. Observing these actions, Dr. Evans moved on. As she introduced the next person, Don raised his eyelids a fraction, peaked a look at the teenage Charlie again, wondering again who and what else he was seeing that wasn't real, momentarily frightened that his connection with reality had been thoroughly and permanently severed.

"And this is Jacob," the therapist said. Don peered at her from out of the corner of his eye. She was nodding towards the tiny spirit sitting across from Don.

_He is real…she sees him too._

Don's stomach began to settle with relief. Then he frowned disappointedly.

_But then__ he's not Charlie, not my brother. _

Still, as Dr. Evans started the session, Don could not help but keep his eyes on the boy.

_He looks just like him when he was about thirteen, the last time I saw him before we went our separate ways to college. _

Though he must be older than that, Don realized. They were in the adult wing, so the boy- _Jacob_- had to be at least eighteen. He doesn't look it, Don decided. And really, one could easily tell by the simplicity of his face that he was not much more than a child- no matter what his biological age.

Don was suddenly aware that Dr. Evans was asking him another question. This time, he crossed his arms over his chest and hunched his shoulders down. She got the message and opened up a conversation with the man sitting to her right. When Don was convinced the therapist was fully occupied, he dared to look up again, towards Jacob.

Jacob stared back.

Don swallowed nervously. It was eerie. He was convinced he was sitting across from Charlie.

Only, the _bad_ feeling he got whenever he thought about his brother was gone.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alan almost panicked.

It had only been a few seconds.

When he and Don went by his group therapy room, they had run into Dr. Miller. It had taken Alan a little self-prodding before he remembered Miller was the man he'd run into the night Charlie tried to visit.

"Nice to see you again," Alan had shook the man's hand, only planning to say a polite hello, but the man talked rapidly and before Alan knew it they were in a full-fledge conversation, one Alan found it hard to extricate himself from. While Dr. Miller talked, Alan nodded his head and responded in kind, trying to keep an eye on Don. He couldn't remember the last time they had been around other people and Alan didn't want Don to be overwhelmed. After all, Don had yet to be able to go in with his therapy group, which met in a safe, quiet environment. Standing in the hallway with a stranger blabbering on was probably disturbing to Don.

And so it was.

All too soon, Don was tugging at his sleeve and Alan tried to cut short Miller's talk. For those few seconds, Alan took his eyes off Don.

And that's all it took for his son to disappear.

So, Alan almost panicked. He'd been trying to protect Don for far too long. His own nerves shot and his own sanity neatly bound to Don's safety-mental and otherwise- Alan's face went white and he lost his breath when he couldn't find Don next to him or anywhere else in the hallway.

Luckily, Dr. Evans was nearby. With great perception, she strode up to Alan and quickly told him where his son had surprisingly gone. "He's in group," she said, putting an arm across his back and directing him to look through the half-closed therapy room doorway. Inside, Alan saw Don submerged in the seat closest to the right wall, staring dazedly across the room. At what, Alan couldn't see; it was hidden from his view.

Alan sucked in a deep breath and wiped a hand over his brow in relief. "I…I can't believe it," he finally managed to say. "I was beginning to believe he never would. What'd I miss?"

"Honestly," the young therapist replied, "I don't know. I was about to ask him if he was joining us today and whoosh! Before I could say a single word he strode past me and went inside."

Alan pondered this a few minutes while he watched Don. He had no clue as to why Don had gone inside today of all days. Maybe it was the appearance of Dr. Miller, or maybe it was Dr. Evans' straightforward approach- Alan had no idea which person, or if either of them had been the cause. He supposed it didn't matter. Impossibly, Don was inside with his group, that's what was important. It seemed that Don was taking a step forward in the healing process at last.

As Alan continued to stand in the hallway, not acting as if he planned to move, Dr. Evans leaned forward conspiratorially. "You know, there's no rule against fathers taking a break now and then."

"Thanks," Alan replied, "I'll try to remember that." He watched the doctor enter into the therapy room and gently shut the door behind her.

"Pleasant young woman, isn't she?" A deep voice spoke from behind Alan.

Alan realized Dr. Miller had never left, but had stayed in the hall, apparently waiting for him to finish his business with Evans.

"Yes," Alan replied, turning around to face him, "My son's lucky to have her."

"So is mine," Dr. Miller agreed.

Alan raised his brows in surprise. "Your son sees Dr. Evans?"

"In group, everyday," Dr. Miller gestured towards the room she had just entered, "apparently the same one as your son. Weird I haven't noticed you before."

"Today's the first time he's attending, though we've walked by a few times." Alan glanced at his watch. He had two hours time before Don would be out of therapy. Maybe he should listen to the doctor's advice and take a break.

But do what?

When Don was in his individual therapy, Alan usually sat in the outer office and waited for him each hour that he was inside. It had never entered his mind that he could be doing something else. Occasionally, at night before bed, Alan continued to go outside and walk around in front of the hospital- but not for long, because it began to seem cruel that he had that freedom of movement while his son was a captive inside the confines of the hospital and within his own mind. And once a day Alan called Charlie; but Alan could not consider his talks with Charlie breaks. Though he appreciated how much effort Charlie put into trying to make him feel better, Alan still felt bad afterwards. Lying to Charlie was taking its toll and Alan wasn't sure how much longer he could do so.

Not to mention the lies he had told Millie.

"You want to catch a cup of coffee?" Dr. Miller asked. "Not here, mind you. There's a great little shop down the street; at the most, ten minutes away. I guarantee they've got the best stuff in town."

"I don't know, Dr. Miller," Alan said hesitantly, "I try not to leave Don for too long. Besides, I have a couple phone calls I should be making."

Dr. Miller clapped a hand on Alan's back and began guiding him down the hall. "First, I've told you- call me Jody. Second, I warned you about burnout. If you're not even willing to leave when your son's tucked safely away in therapy, you need more help than I thought."

Thinking the man's assessment was probably correct, and that maybe a little celebration was in order since Don had entered group that day, Alan allowed Jody to lead him down the hall, to sign out, and then outside, where, as promised, they were able to walk to a coffee shop in no time at all. After grabbing two large cups of hot coffee that Alan decided was indeed the best he'd ever had, the two men found a table in a corner where they could have some privacy to talk freely.

"So, your son's with Dr. Evans," Miller said between careful sips. "That means he was raped."

Alan frowned disapprovingly at the man's bluntness. "Whatever reason Don is in there for," he said sternly, "it's private. He doesn't want anyone to know."

"Of course," Miller said, "I understand how you feel about keeping it secret. But in the long run, you're going to find that it's quite impossible." Miller put aside his coffee and leaned forward on his arms, speaking quietly but pointedly. "My son's in your son's group and that group is specifically for rape victims- I'm sorry, Alan, but I can put two and two together. I'm sorry to be so forward, but it wasn't difficult for me to figure out your son was raped."

Alan's hands shook agitatedly. He didn't know how to respond.

"Look," Miller continued, "I don't need to know all about your son- Donny's his name, right?"

Alan gave a tentative nod.

"Okay, I don't need to know all about him. Name is good enough. Anything else you want to talk about- _and I mean anything_- I promise, it stays between the two of us. Of course, I expect the same from you."

Alan was indecisive. "I'm not sure if I should talk to you. Don is very private about the little aspects of his life. As for what happened to him- the assault- multiply that by a hundredfold. And even if he didn't mind, fact is I've been keeping quiet about this whole thing for so long…I don't know if I _can_ open up about what happened."

Miller sat back in his chair and began swirling his finger through his coffee, thinking over Alan's predicament. "I have the same problem, believe it or not. I mean, about having to keep quiet. My wife- well, I try to avoid discussing the whole situation with her. I don't think she can really understand what I'm going through and, in the end I guess I don't want to cause any friction between us. You see, she's my second wife. Jacob- that's my son- his mother died shortly after he was raped."

The sorrow that came through Miller's voice when discussing the loss of his wife helped alleviate Alan's hesitation to talk. Somehow, the knowledge of their corresponding tragedies allowed Alan to view himself and Miller as instant confidantes. And Alan needed someone to talk to, someone besides a doctor or nurse, someone who could understand what he was going through.

If he had his choice, Alan would have chosen his other son. Nobody else but Charlie loved Don as much as he did; nobody else could truly empathize with the grief that Alan was experiencing, could identify the changes the assault had caused in Don, could comprehend what Don's attackers had stolen from him- more than physical and mental health, only Charlie would understand what Alan did- that they had snatched away Don's soul.

But Alan couldn't talk to Charlie; at least, not yet.

So Miller's offer of an attentive and understanding ear suddenly looked like a lifeline being thrown out to him. Cut off from family and friends, the tide of his sorrow ever rising, Alan eventually realized the only sane thing he could do was to reach for the line Miller was offering him and grab onto it.

"It sounds like you lost your entire family."

"I guess you could say that," Miller agreed. "My first marriage was one tragedy right after another." He was quiet for a while, as if waiting for memories long dead to come forward once again. Alan waited patiently, for he wanted to know more about this man whose path seemed to be running parallel to his own though they kept crossing each other. "First one boy," Miller started again, "then the other. It's no wonder Nicole couldn't handle it."

"Nicole was your first wife?" Alan prodded.

"Yes, Jacob and Andrew's mother. I had two sons- I guess I didn't mention that."

"No. Seems like you and I have more in common than…than…uh, I mean I also have two sons. Donny's the older one."

"And the other?"

"Charlie. He's a mathematician."

"Andrew liked math," Miller said, "and Jacob, too. Both kids were bookworms- so quiet…sometimes you wondered if they could speak."

"Not my boys," Alan grinned, "loudest kids on the block." He thought back to the days when Don would come into the house slamming in the door, yelling at the top of his lungs to the entire world that he was home, Charlie coming in close behind him, his behavior an exact duplication of his older brother's actions, trying to emulate Don in one of the few ways he could. So different then, so much the same- like now, Alan thought, or rather, like they were before Don's assault.

Alan saddened again.

Miller's face dropped, too. "Maybe if my boys were louder, you know, maybe if they had talked more someone could have prevented everything that happeneded to them."

"I keep doing that, too," Alan spoke towards his coffee, "telling myself that if only I'd done this or that, maybe Donny would have been home with his family instead of alone and vulnerable."

"Unfortunately, it's hard to stop blaming yourself. It's been damn near five years and I still feel the guilt for what happened every single day."

"What _did _happen to your son? I understand that Jacob was...was raped…"

"Yes," Miller cleared his throat. "It's true, he was raped. You could almost say it happened at home. Or nearly- it was just out back, in the woods behind our house. A neighbor found him there, naked, beaten head to toe…and…and sodomized." Alan saw the man's eyes cloud over. "Jacob should have died there, but by some miracle he survived." Miller squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, clearing his vision. "His mother was distraught- Jacob's body healed, but his mind didn't. When we saw him in the hospital, he was almost nonresponsive to his environment and it was obvious he had to be committed. A week after that visit, Nicole's mother found her in our bedroom. Overdose of antidepressants."

Alan blew out a stream of air. "That's horrible. How did you ever survive?"

"Same way you're surviving- by spending all of my time with my son. I spent three years in that hospital with him, every second that I could- waiting all of that time to see if he'd ever talk about what happened."

"And he never did?"

"Not about the assault. Now and then, he'll say a few words- nothing more than that." Miller stared at his hands. "He's still not very responsive to his environment. If you tell him to do something, he will. But most independent actions and actual conversation seem beyond him."

As Miller continued to talk about his son, Alan thought about Don. He was behaving the same way; doing things after he was told- not before, only moving on his own when he was trying to avoid someone or something, no longer able to hold a complex conversation. Would he always be like that? Alan had wondered this time and again. It was his greatest fear that Don would end up as a permanent patient at the hospital. What had Miller done wrong that Alan could avoid doing? Or did the difference lie in the personality of the victim? Wasn't Don stronger than the typical man? Miller's son had only been a child when he was attacked. Maybe age and experience would help Don succeed where the child couldn't.

He had to hope so.

Alan put his attention back on Miller. When the other man mentioned his sons again, Alan interrupted. "You said Jacob has a brother?"

"Yes, an older one."

Thinking of Charlie, Alan asked, "Has he been able to handle what happened to his brother? You haven't mentioned him coming around…"

"I'm sorry. I guess I didn't make that clear, either. Andrew died a year before Jacob's assault."

More tragedy, Alan thought. Had this man had one moment of happiness in his life? "I'm sorry to hear that. My youngest son doesn't know what happened to his brother yet. I guess I was hoping for an insider's opinion as to how he might react when I tell him."

Miller looked at his watch. "Group will be ending soon- better get going." As they walked back to the hospital, Miller told Alan, "If you still want my opinion about your other son…well, I think you should trust him. I know if Jacob's brother was around, he'd be moving night and day to do anything he could to help him."

"Yes," Alan said reflectively, "That's exactly what I'd expect from Charlie."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the group session ended, Don was drawn back to his surroundings by the voice of Dr. Evans gently prompting him that it was time for him to leave. He felt as if she were waking him from a dream, the two hours' time having passed in a flurry around him though he remained stoically in his seat.

He stretched a bit, his limbs stiff. The action allowed him to stay put while he waited for the others to leave. It wasn't until the room had emptied that Don stood up, Dr. Evans observing him from the far corner of the room.

"We'll see you tomorrow."

Don did not respond. He straggled to the door and stopped in the frame, scanning the hallway for other people. Only two people were in sight- Jacob and a nurse, both of whom were keeping their eyes on the door at the end of the corridor, located to Don's left. Don jostled across the hall and huddled against the wall, continuing to stare at and speculate about the boy.

_Must have been assaulted or he wouldn't be in our group._

The boy stayed near his nurse, practically hidden behind her back, the top of his curly head just peaking over her shoulder, her foot tapping impatiently while he grasped the back of her uniform.

_He must be scared to be out here…why doesn't she take him to his room?_

Don took another fast look about them, checking a second time for visitors in the hall. Two orderlies in a heated discussion appeared at the end of the hall opposite to where Jacob and his nurse were looking. Nearby, a patient came out of a room and headed towards them, stopped to check the time and then hurried on his way. Soon, the orderlies left through a side door and the corridor was silent again.

Satisfied there was no one else about, Don turned back to Jacob. The boy's knuckles were white from gripping the nurse's uniform so tight, the woman herself having crossed her arms over her chest and the tap of her foot having increased its speed, abject anxiety apparent in the boy, annoyance in the woman.

As Don pondered what the exact cause of their emotional turmoil could be, the answer to that question came walking swiftly down the corridor, an apology on his lips.

"I am so sorry," Miller told the nurse. "I was waylaid by a call from St. Mary's." Seeing Don, the doctor nodded his way but didn't wait for a reply. He quickly reached around the nurse for Jacob, pulled him to his waiting arm and hustled him away, the frustrated nurse huffing as she strode to keep up.

_Poor kid- I bet he can't do anything without his dad_

Speaking of which…

Don frowned.

The clock on the wall said group had been over for more than ten minutes. What had happened to _his_ dad?

Don started getting apprehensive.

It wasn't like him to be late- whenever Don came out of his sessions with Dr. Saunders, his dad was always sitting there, waiting for him. And his next session was less than an hour away. What would he do if his dad didn't show up on time? What if he never did?

Don's escalating worries were expanded by the sound of several sets of feet moving his way. He nervously peered behind him. Dr. Evans was coming out of her doorway in anticipation of welcoming a new group of people, three of whom had come early. She noticed Don and began to walk towards him, concern written on her face.

He wanted to run. This wasn't part of his routine. Going to group had been change enough. Now he was stuck in the hall with a congregation of people he didn't know and a doctor he'd just met. Don pressed into the wall, his palms flat against the smooth plaster. His entire body rippled with anxiety- he knew they were going to _touch_. The walls under his hands starting to powder, the feeling of filth working its way up to his wrists, onwards along his arms, darkness drifted nearby and he could no longer see.

_Please_

Then a firm hand clutched his elbow, a familiar voice spoke an apology, and he felt the motion of being tugged away, his face buried safely in his father's shoulder until he heard, "It's alright, Donny. We're in your room."

Don raised his face and opened his eyes, but kept his cheek resting on Alan's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Donny. I had to talk to your brother."

"Charlie?"

"Yes, Donny. You only have one brother."

Alan guided Don to the bed and helped him lie down. "You have time for a short nap, Donny. I think after everything you've been through it'd be a good idea if you took one."

Don stared at the ceiling. Had his dad seen Charlie, too?

Alan stood by the bed and smoothed Don's hair with his fingers. "I'm so proud of you, Donny. You stayed in group the entire time." With a hint of guilt, he added, "And waited for me all by yourself."

As Don began to drift off to sleep, he mumbled, "I saw Charlie, too."

"What was that, Donny?" Alan leaned forward so he could hear Don's fading words.

"I saw Charlie, too. Only his name is Jacob, now."


	18. Chapter 18

Charlie walked back and forth in front of his chalk boards, scribbling now and then, squinting as the only light source in the garage came from three haphazardly-placed candles and an electric lantern.

Outside, rain beat against the outside of the house and wind howled around the eaves.

Charlie was oblivious to it all. When he broke a piece of chalk, he mechanically picked up a new one and started writing anew. His thoughts, though, were not on the math. They were on his brother.

It had been a little over a week since he'd gone to the hospital, a little less time since he'd been let go from the Bureau and the NSA. Since then, everyday his father called, everyday the news didn't change, and Charlie spent any free time he had in his garage, ostensibly working on his mathematical theories but in truth his mind continued to be racked with newfound doubts about his relationship with Don.

_Intruder_

That's what he'd been called twice in a week, once by his father, a second time by Merrick.

_When_, he wondered with pure misery, _when had he taken on the role of villain in his brother's life_?

Charlie's thoughts wandered back to the time their house had been robbed and how his father had talked about catching the _intruders_. At first, Charlie had not been too upset himself, as it appeared that only material things had been taken; in time, though, he had come to understand other, less physical things had been taken as well. It was the loss of these items that bothered his father, the loss of the intangible feelings of safety and peace of mind. The intruders had stolen these as well, for a while at least, until Don had come to the rescue and recovered the stolen items, his success in defeating the intruders restoring a new but familiar sense of security to their home.

_Intruders_

Dad called me an intruder, Charlie thought bitterly, he called me the same thing he had called those thieves. How could he put me in that same classification? And Merrick said I was one, too. Well, how about Don? Does he view me like that? Does he think my presence at the hospital will shatter his feelings of safe-being and steal away what little peace of mind he might have left; would I be an intruder into his sanity?

_I don't believe that's possible- I could never hurt you like that, Don._

_Never._

Despite the strength of this inner denial, the doubt remained with Charlie, tormenting him.

Charlie cracked another piece of chalk against the board in front of him. Angrily, he tossed it aside and grabbed another. He scratched short jabs of numbers and symbols on the board, unaware that a burst of air had entered the room and blown papers everywhere- till he felt a tap on his left shoulder.

Charlie jumped, startled, turned in his own whirl of air.

Amita was busy racing around the room, snatching up papers. Charlie quickly joined her, both of them dropping the last of the stragglers back on the table before they went to the couch to sit.

"What are you doing here?" Charlie asked embarrassedly, rolling a piece of chalk between his fingers. His threw off his thoughts of Don as he realized he hadn't so much as said one word to Amita in over a week.

"I came to see what's going on between us."

He dropped the chalk, clumsily grabbed her hand and held it. "Nothing. I mean, nothing's wrong if that's what you're asking.."

"Charlie, I don't believe you. I've been calling..."

"You know I like to wear my headphones when I work..."

"_And _leaving messages..."

"Dad usually takes care of the answering machine and he's still not home, so..."

"_And _I left three written notes on your office door," Amita rushed to cut off the litany of excuses rushing to the tip of Charlie's tongue, "sent several e-mails, cracked your classroom door and waved while you were teaching Advanced Applied Mathematics yesterday morning. Not to mention I also came by here last night- I spent twenty minutes ringing the doorbell and knocking on your front door. _And I know you were home! _Your car was sitting right out front!"

Charlie lowered his eyes sheepishly. "I guess I've been kinda distracted with my work."

"Distracted?" Amita stared at him in disbelief. "Charlie, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were out here working on..."

"I'm not!" He shouted, suddenly agitated. "I promised Don I'd never do that again, no matter what happens."

Amita sat back.

Something was wrong. She didn't know what, but it wasn't what she'd suspected.

Amita had spent the last week chasing after Charlie, trying to get a response from him, gain a little attention, becoming angrier the more obvious it became that he was avoiding her. After all, it had only been a week since they had come back from their trip to San Francisco, and though Charlie had taken on a case for the FBI- with her approval- she hadn't expected to not see or hear from him for so long.

Then late the previous night- after kicking Charlie's door four really good times (she _honestly _forgot to mention this to him) and returning home to gulp down a package of strawberry rice cakes- Amita had remembered that Don was supposed to have returned home earlier that week. Immediately, she had decided to forgive Charlie, assuming the two brothers were heartily wrapped up in the new case David had requested Charlie consult on. With this newfound understanding in her heart, she'd called the Bureau earlier that day, expecting the odds were in her favor that she'd finally be able to talk to Charlie. Only, when she'd spoken to the receptionist, they'd informed her that Charlie was not consulting on any cases so was thus unavailable through them.

With this news, Amita's temper had flared, sending her to Charlie's house once she was done with work. She hadn't bothered to knock at his door; she'd simply walked in the front door, through the house and into the garage to confront him for having forgotten all his promises he'd made the three weeks they'd been together, for making her feel as if she didn't matter anymore.

That confrontation, as well as her anger, was fast put aside as she took in the unspoken meaning of Charlie's words.

_No matter what happens._

Amita's face filled with concern and she squeezed Charlie's hand. "What's happened, Charlie?"

His face fell, crushed. She moved closer, their shoulders touching.

"It's Don," he managed at last. "He's had a nervous breakdown."

"Oh, Charlie! When?"

"About...about a month ago." He explained everything that had happened since then, including how he'd found out and his failed attempt to see Don. Amita noted how Charlie emphasized that his father had been with Don all along. "_He's been taking care of him.._"

The implications of his words were obvious to Amita. While Alan had been suffering along with Don, Charlie had been out gallivanting around with Amita and the guilt for doing so was eating away at him.

Of course, Amita wanted to point out, it wasn't Charlie's fault. He had no way of knowing his family was in trouble, especially since Alan had been lying to him about where he and Don had been the past month. But she didn't tell Charlie this. First, because it would make him defensive of his father and Amita didn't want to become the opposition; she wanted Charlie to know she was on his side. Second, because it would be pointless to state the obvious. She knew Charlie had an overblown sense of duty to his family ever since his mother died. Amita felt it was so strong in him that there was nothing anyone could say that would make him feel he hadn't lived up to his own expectations regarding this duty. So, instead, she decided it was best to forget what he viewed as his past failings and focus on the future, where he had a chance to make things better; she wanted to assure him that he could still be there for his family.

"Are you still talking to your dad?"

"Everyday. He sounds so tired. I keep trying to get him to come home a day or two. You know, take a little break. But he won't."

"I think you should keep trying, Charlie. He'll have to come home sometime, and if he knows he has your support, it will make him feel less guilty about leaving Don."

Charlie nodded. "I hadn't thought about that. I was simply thinking he needed the rest." He paused a few moments before continuing. "I feel so useless."

"You're not, Charlie. There are so many things you can do to help."

He glanced at his chalkboards. "I thought about making an algorithm...but Don's so complex."

"I'm not talking numbers, Charlie. At least, not complicated ones like those."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you can do a lot of things to make it easier on both your dad _and _Don."

"But I can't see Don...as for my dad...well, I try to cheer him up whenever I talk to him."

Amita smiled. "That's good, Charlie. But let me ask you- what have you been doing around here?"

"I haven't been working on P v NP if that's what you're worried about."

"No, Charlie. I know you wouldn't do that. I was talking about grunt work?"

Charlie's brow furrowed. "Grunt work? I've been grading papers..."

Amita stood up and went to the corner of the garage. She tapped with her foot at a full basket of dirty clothes. "Grunt work- like doing laundry. Exactly how many clothes do your father and Don have with them? Maybe they'd like a change after a month of wearing the same things."

Charlie ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed he hadn't thought of that, repeating this assessment out loud. "I hadn't thought of that."

"And what if they forgot to take something with them? Have you asked?"

"No, it never crossed my mind."

"What about other basic things- like the bills? I noticed you have a stack of mail overflowing the letter holder in the dining room. Have you been keeping up with them? Or how about the house? There seems to be a buildup of dust everywhere and...um, I don't know if I should mention the condition the kitchen is in. Have you been doing _any_ housework?"

"No, I...I...dammit. I haven't been able to do anything except think about seeing Don."

Amita sat back down beside Charlie and put her arms around him. "It's okay to worry about him, Charlie. But I know you want to help, not just sit around worrying."

"I thought my hands were tied when it came to helping," he tried to explain.

"In some ways they are, Charlie. In other ways they're not."

"I should have thought about those things. I shouldn't need you to point them out to me."

Amita could feel the guilt ebbing through Charlie. Soothingly, she told him, "Sometimes it's hard for people to realize how important it is for simple matters to be taken care of, even in the midst of tragedy. Like I said before, your dad is going to have to come home sometime; so will Don. I don't think you really know how much help you can do them by making sure they come home to a clean house and without any worries about bills."

Charlie pulled back slightly, gave himself enough room to give Amita a heartfelt kiss. Then he stood up, erasing the nearest chalkboard and starting a list of things he needed to do. Amita joined him, standing behind him and resting her body against his back as he wrote, listening as he enthusiastically rambled to himself, occasionally looking over his shoulder at her and smiling gratefully.

"And his apartment. Wonder how old the food in the refrigerator is? Should probably clean it out. And his bills. Credit cards, electricity, rent...man, I hope they don't plan to evict him..."

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Colby sat at his desk, leaning in his chair towards Megan's. He was trying to read a file that had been left there for them. Well, technically Megan. But he knew it had something to do with them and thought it more than reasonable that he should be allowed to read it.

However, he wasn't sure if Megan would agree. Thus was the reason for his current ill- attempt at trying to lift the lid of the folder and read the paper underneath with _one _eye while at the same time keeping the other _one_ out for Megan.

She came unnoticed from behind, smacking him on the back of the head with a thick letter folded in her hand.

"Ow!" The front legs of his chair slammed to the floor and he said a few choice words at the shocking jolt that screeched up his body.

"My desk, my folders, _my business, _" she said, wearily sliding into her seat.

Colby's intended retort died on his lips. To all appearances, Megan looked unusually drained.

It _is_ unusual, Colby thought, despite what happened this past week. Though they had each received a written reprimand for their investigation into Don's whereabouts, they had taken it in stride; they had all agreed it was justly deserved. They had also agreed that they could handle Don being away for a "little break", that their team would survive until his return.

In response to Don's absence, Megan had slowly taken over control of their team and had begun asserting more authority with each passing day, showing good skills as a leader, albeit their assignments had been paperwork. Still, it was always something of a challenge to take on a new role, especially when you felt that role rightfully belonged to another.

Despite these events, Colby hadn't seen any changes in Megan's energy level or thoroughness in performing her job nor had he seen any similar change in David's performance. By silent agreement, they had all decided to make sure Merrick would see what a great job Don had done in teaching them theirs. And after all, it would only be a matter of time before Don was back and they sure didn't want him reaming them for poor workmanship.

Colby looked Megan over.

Something had changed. After the initial shock of knowing Don had had a nervous breakdown, they had accepted that it could happen to the best of them- which Don definitely was- and that maybe it would be best that he took a little break, take some time to rest.

And that's what they'd been calling it ever since.

"When Don gets back from his _rest_…"

"While Don's on his _rest_, maybe we should…"

"Can't wait till Don's finished with his _rest_…"

Words that made it seem less like something was wrong than something they could all accept and deal with- like they were pretending Don was on vacation, not, well, locked away. It had kept the team's spirits from getting too low, the good-natured joshing between them cautiously continuing as the week progressed and they got back into old, familiar and sorely missed routines. They were a team, still intact; they're leader was away, but soon to return, gone on a _little rest._

"Megan, what's wrong?"

She bit her lip and smoothed a hair out of her face.

Colby drew closer, leaning in towards her. "Really, no joke. What's wrong?"

Another strand of hair slipped into her face and she grabbed it, yanking it behind an ear. "I just got back from Merrick's office. We need to talk, but I want to wait till David gets here so we can talk about it as a team."

Not happy having to wait, nevertheless Colby scooted back to his desk and began to work, impatiently tapping his pencil, glancing over at Megan from time to time, wondering why today of all days David had to be late.

An eternity of forty minutes passed before his partner made his appearance, carrying a box of papers in front of him. "Sorry I'm late," David apologized to Megan, "but you said we needed these files and the office didn't open till…"

"Never mind," Colby interrupted.. He stood up abruptly, took the box from David's arms and dropped it with a bang on his desk. Before David could say anything, Colby explained, "Megan's got something important to talk to us about and I'd rather we get to it."

His eyes narrowing, David pulled a chair up to Megan's desk, Colby doing the same.

"This have to do with Don?" David demanded before Megan could say a word.

"Yeah," she sighed. "It does. Seems that…"

She stopped talking, the click of heels and the rustle of cloth suddenly beside them. Looking up, they were greeted by a wide smile.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm looking for an Agent Reeves?" A striking woman in her late twenties stood in front of them. She was dressed in black slacks and matching blouse, her long bleached-blond hair tied up in a loose bun, gun in holster under one arm, a box of office supplies under the other and held up against one hip, her perfect complexion and oval face making it improbable that she could actually be one of them rather than a model airbrushed across the cover of a magazine.

But she _was _one of them; that they knew immediately by her strong stance and piercing eyes as much as by the gun she was sporting.

David and Colby whipped their faces around to Megan, worried expressions on their faces.

She chose not to answer their unspoken question directly. After all, they were good investigators- they had obviously figured out what she had planned to tell them.

"I'm Agent Reeves." She held out her hand. "You must be Agent Lee."

"Yes." They shook hands. The blond tilted her head. "You must be Granger and Sinclair."

Colby hesitated, shrugged at David and stood up, taking the box from Lee and beginning to lay her items out on a nearby empty desk. "You must be our new team member." He directed a questioning look towards Megan, but her face had lost all emotion, unreadable.

"Temporarily," Lee replied, tightening the knot of hair on her head, leaning against the table to watch Colby.

"How temporarily?" David crossed his arms and glared at her.

"Oh, not long at all- a few months they said."

Colby froze. "A few _months_?" he whispered, cleared his throat, stared at Megan. "A few months?" he asked louder.

"Yes- maybe less, but…I wouldn't really count on it."

Megan and Colby gathered around their friend. She put a hand on his arm. "Look, it was bound to happen. They can't keep the Bureau all tied up over one agent."

Feeling out of place, Lee drew back and busied herself rearranging the items on her desk.

David loosened up his tie, took a few breaths. "Look, I know how it works when an agent is down. Truthfully, I'm _surprised_ Merrick held out as long as he did before finding a replacement."

"Then you understand?" Megan asked.

"No, I mean, yes- about the replacement I do. What I don't understand is what's happening with Don." He looked at his friends with pained sorrow on his face. "What's wrong with him? I mean, what's _really_ wrong with him? I've never met anyone as strong as him in my life, and you want me to believe he had a mental breakdown over getting beat up a little?"

"Just because it's a mental facility doesn't mean it's all that serious. He hasn't had a vacation since I became a part of this team, so he may be taking advantage of the situation by getting extra…"

"_Rest_? Is that what we're going to keep saying? 'Cause that's crap and you know it...Colby knows it...and I know it. If Don needed a vacation he would have gone to the Bahamas- not lockup."

Megan stiffened, took her hand from David. "What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing." David brushed the tips of his fingers across his upper lip, thinking a few minutes before continuing. "Nothing, I guess. Just…let's stop pretending that Don's off at some private spa or something, that he's going to walk in tomorrow… or the next day, or the next."

"Okay. I can agree with that. I've never believed in denial." Megan sat beside David and companionably bumped his shoulder with her own. "So, is there anything else we need to talk about?"

Colby finally spoke up. "I think we need to call Alan and Charlie, let them know we're here if they need us. We might not know exactly what's going on, but I bet they could sure use some kind of support, even if it's just emotional."

Megan smiled for the first time that morning. "Sounds like a plan Don would agree with; no matter how bad off he is or how much privacy he wants, I can't believe he'd want us to abandon his family."

"_Our _family," David said affectionately.

Colby and Megan silently agreed.

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That's it, Don, you're doing good, hold it steady- just a quick look." The physician started to insert the proctoscope.

"Dad… _please!_"

Alan tightened his hand in Don's and brushed his hair. His forehead dropped and he leaned as close as he could to Don's ear. "They're almost done, Donny, just a minute more."

Don squeezed his eyes tight and desperately tried to think of anything other than the instrument entering his bottom, slowly and carefully, but there nevertheless.

It was impossible.

He tried to twist away from the doctor's reach but found for the millionth time since lying down on the exam table that he was immobilized by strong straps and his father's hand placed firmly on his back.

Don moved the only things he could- his eyes. They ran wild around the room, his breathing and heartbeat increasing in pace as his rectum slowly filled.

They were coming for him, he was sure.

Right around the corner, waiting for him- any moment now they would take the place of his father and the hospital staff, take the place of the instrument and enter him a second and third and fourth time, tearing him up inside all anew.

Not again, Don prayed, as the walls began turning black and the lights began to dim.

"_Please…make them s-stop._"

Alan soothed Don's back. "Okay, Donny." He glanced at the doctor, hoping he could keep his word. The man shook his head; he wasn't finished yet. Alan kept talking to Don, trying to distract him while the doctor finished the exam.

Don moaned in fear. Alan pleaded with God for this torture to end for his son; to his surprise, within moments the doctor stepped back from Don and, after making a short jot on a chart, he made a few adjustments and began sliding the instrument out of Don.

"All done, Donny," Alan quickly said. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Don's brow. "We can go back to your room in a few minutes."

Don tried to listen to his dad, pay attention to what he was saying.

But the darkness had been coming too swift, crawled up the walls like a living tar, hung from the ceiling in long stalactites that dripped down to his body, finally engulfing his senses and blocking his perception of the examination room.

And suddenly, they were there, just like he knew they'd be, emerging from out of the filthy, sticky mess, the only light left the short flash from metal teeth ready to wolf him down, wholly, completely.

_Please_

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_He was thirteen years old._

_Around him, there was darkness once again._

_But he knew where he was. _

_Slowly, he pounded the baseball into the mitt on his left hand. Underneath his feet, the grass was so tall he could feel it brushing against his lower thighs, light touches that sent shivers up his leg and worried him._

_Don't touch._

_He couldn't see, but across the field he knew there were other players today, their presence stirring the air around him, the sound of their feet shuffling up and down, pressing into damp earth as they stood in position, hands slapping balls against the broken leather of mitts, a continuous beat that began to increase as more boys appeared to his right._

_One boy, two, three, four, five altogether, all geared up to play, unseen by him but there nevertheless, intimate with him they all wore the same uniform, were on the same team, each stood on their own pitchers' mounds, ready for the call of the coach to play, to take his lead._

_He slammed his ball into his mitt, harder, louder than the rest, pounding an individual beat that echoed in the cavern of his skull._

_The worn leather hummed around his hand, the skin of the ball polishing with every twist he gave, smoother with every pass, its slick skin soft and strong and round and solid in his hand when it disappeared in his mitt, the rustle of the grass against his legs, moving upwards, sneakily sweeping along his uniform, bending to the teasing whispers of the wind to try to get underneath and he tries to kick it off, tries to move, can't, and it continues to crawl, to infiltrate._

_don'ttouchmedon'ttouchmedon'ttouchmedon'ttouchmedon'ttouchme_

_The thumpth! of six balls punched into gloves, steadily drumming in perfect and familiar rhythm, thumpth! and he wants to play, but he can't move, can't go forward, can't leave his spot, tied to the ground, he can only feel the ball in his hand, hear the thumps of the others, sense the grass growing higher, circling his legs, fear driving the beat faster, harder, until the sounds of six pounding balls rush in his ear and spiral downward to seize at his heart, thumping faster and faster, blood rushing his head, dizzying, he can only perceive the ball in his hand slipping up and down, up and down, a tight, hot pressure slinking up his spine to the back of his neck and squeezing._

_The thumping stills, all is silent, the cavern of his mind silently spread around him._

_He can't see, can't hear, buckles slightly at the weight on his neck._

_Warmth, safety, turns slowly to it, can't see._

_The realization his eyes are sealed shut, he works hard to pry them open, desperate to see. _

_Slow, ever so slow, a small peek..._

_His father's face revealed before him, his hand strongly gripping the back of his neck. _

_Touches on his body gone, spirits flown away._

_The loud beat of his heart reemerging, steady, strong, paced._

_No one is there but them._

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Alan kept his face within a few inches of Don's.

When Don's eyes cleared and became focused, Alan smiled in warm greeting.

"You came back to me, Donnie."

Don was on his right side, his movements continuing to be restricted by restraints; still, he craned his neck upward, forward to Alan till their brows rested against each other. "You always find me," he said hoarsely. Tears of relief lubricated their eyes.

"Try not to leave me again."

"I'll try."

Don felt a slight jab in his arm. He released his father and Alan stood up, took a step back. The nurses released Don's bindings, allowed him to turn over on his back and shut his eyes. Two male nurses made fast work of lifting him onto a gurney, straps back in place and out the door, Alan following close behind as they took Don back to his room. A few minutes more and Don was bound in his bed for the night.

After the doctor examined Don's head and a nurse checked his vitals, satisfied with what they found, all staff left the room, leaving Alan and Don alone save a small light near the door.

Alan pushed the rails down on the left side of the hospital bed, bent forward, and managed to slip his arm up under Don's neck, his upper torso lying beside Don at an odd angle as he cradled his son's head, his right hand cupping Don's jaw, a thick thumb stroking his cheek lovingly.

"Donny, you're stronger than you think...stronger than _them_, I promise you are. Things are going to change, Donny. This is the turning point. I know it is."

Tears drained from Alan's eyes as he quietly pleaded and sobbed. "Don't let them win, Donny…

_Please_

Don't let them take you away from me."

_Stay home, Donny, stay home._


	19. Chapter 19

Don leaned into Alan's chest, breathing heavily.

"Please, Dad...I-I can't close my eyes."

"Shhh. It'll get better, Donny." Alan reached across Don's back and snatched a pillow, pushed it deeply under his head. "We'll keep the lights on again. Just try to sleep."

"I can't." Don's voice rose hysterically. "They're...they're not working."

"You haven't taken them long enough."

A nurse appeared on the opposite side of the bed and began positioning the straps.

"I-I don't care."

"Donny, you have to give them time to work."

"It's worse, Dad. It's worse..." Don began clawing at his chest, his body twisting in Alan's arms. As his agitation increased and his scratches deepened, the nurse gently took hold of his wrist and began to place a strap around it in protection. Alan helped maneuver Don flat on his back, then stepped aside as another nurse joined the first to fasten Don in for the night. When they finished, Alan sat down on the edge of the bed, gripped his hand and soothed.

"Try to sleep, Donny." He smoothed a strand of hair from Don's face.

"I-I can't." But nevertheless, his eyelids began to drift downwards. "I n-need to take something to sl-sleep."

"You can't, Donny." Alan ran a finger across Don's cheek before laying a small kiss on his brow. Don looked up at him, his breathing and movements slowing, calming. "I'll be here with you all night. I promise I will."

"Too many nightmares..." Don mumbled, his eyes finally closing.

"I know, Donny."

"Too many…of _them_..." His voice faded as he fell into a troubled sleep.

"I know, Donny. I know. But _we're _stronger than them."

Don fell into a restless sleep and Alan took up his nightly watch. As was his habit, he would wrench away a few pieces of sleep in the morning when possible.

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Lieutenant Gary Walker crumbled a piece of paper and threw it towards the trash, missing the rim by about two good feet.

"Don't quit your day job" a young rookie snipped from a desk far behind him. It was obvious he did not know who he was talking to.

Walker tossed a glare over his shoulder and hit that shot exactly where he'd aimed it, dead center at the rookie, scaring him white before Walker tipped his head towards the paper and the frightened young man- quite smartly- ran to pick it up, hurriedly snatching up the other far-misses that Walker had been busy accumulating for more than an hour.

A long hour he had also spent trying to reach Detective Bradshaw at the LAPD's Special Rape Unit.

Walker knew Bradshaw was in his office- or thereabouts at least. The grizzled lieutenant had checked his sources and they all confirmed Bradshaw was there. Only, he wasn't answering his phone.

That did not please Walker in the least.

With a deep grumble, the lieutenant pulled out his cell and hit Bradshaw's number again; he was just about to bark a complaint into his voicemail when he was interrupted by a haggard, "Bradshaw, here."

With a snap, he responded "Walker, here. Why the hell aren't you answering your phone?"

"Been a little busy here, Walker," came the furious reply, "don't you watch the news."

"Not lately..." Feeling maybe he owed the guy an apology- but unable to voice one due to personal conviction against doing so- Walker toned down the anger and frustration in his voice. "Got a bad one coming on?"

"Yeah," Bradshaw accepted the unspoken apology. He'd known Walker far too long to expect a blunter mea culpa from the guy. "This morning, they found a second little girl in Griffith park...right near the observatory, just like the last one."

"Heard a bit about the first Vic- pretty bad, huh?"

"_Extremely _bad...both of them raped before _and _after TOD. The MO is screaming serial killer but my supervisor and the mayor aren't hearing that right now. They've been keeping the news people busy with claims that neither murder is connected- only vague similarities in the way they were killed, wouldn't want to scare the tourists away with the economy the way it is, yadda yadda yadda. You know the drill."

"But privately they're chewing on your ass to catch the perp before he strikes again."

"So hard my cheeks are bloody raw."

"I'll send over some salve. In the meantime, let's get back to the reason I called."

Walker could actually hear the other man writhing guiltily. "Eppes," Bradshaw lamented, "I take it that you want an update?"

"It's been about seven weeks since the incident, so yeah, that might be nice."

"Okay, now...give me a minute...one minute here." The sound of papers rustling became background noise. "Um, let's see. Bouncer at the club- led nowhere. Disappeared before we could get another interview. Ran the DNA taken from Eppes a second time- once again, no matches in CODIS. No match in AFIS for the latent prints we took. That leaves our two main witnesses- Eppes and the boy. Well, I hate to report that Robert "Bobby" Taylor is no longer with us..."

Walker shot upright in his chair. "What the hell happened?!"

"Easy, Gary, easy- maybe I phrased that wrong. He is no longer with us _in L.A._" Ignoring Walker's smart retort, Bradshaw continued, "Mom sent him to live with his grandma in North Dakota."

"You didn't think to try and stop him from taking off?"

"How? This is a federal crime- it'd be up to the Bureau to place an order to keep the kid here as a material witness. Only, they ain't gonna do that when, _one_- he ain't talking anyway; and _two_- there's no other leads on the case. And before you start arguing that maybe I'm wrong, let me tell you- _I already asked._ Merrick said there was no point in making the kid stay put when we're nowhere near arresting a perp whether alone putting one on trial."

"Did you at least question him again before he left?"

"Tried to- he's not talking anymore than Eppes is. Speaking of which, we're getting nowhere with him."

"I haven't spoken to the dad in a while, but I can guess he's not doing any better."

"Not any better by a long shot. I talked to Wyndham yesterday- they put Eppes on antidepressants three weeks ago but he's still not saying anything about the rape. She said it'll take time and a lot of therapy before we get any answers from him. So, as far as the investigation's going, everyone and everything has been a dead end."

"There has to something..."

"Yeah, uh, don't get your hopes up but there _might_ be a little something. I had my team search the state for assaults with similar MO, expanded it to the rest of the country. Came back with nada for the rest of the states, found one similar case in Northern California from late last year. When we get a chance, one of my guys will go interview the OC to see what they got."

"Huh. Only one other case...So, you figuring these guys are new to this?"

"No, not at all. They were very efficient in their attack- knew how to get Eppes to let down his guard, were able to slip him the Mickey without him noticing, had a meeting place set up out of the way so they'd have plenty of time to do what they wanted to him without interruption...No, I'm sure these guys have had a lot of practice with this kind of attack. Really, I'd consider them pros."

"But you only found one other case."

"Use your head, Gary. Less than half of all rapes are reported each year- that's just an estimate for female victims. No one really knows the true numbers. And when it comes to male victims, the percentage of reports decreases significantly. So it's not surprising that we found only one other case similar to Eppes."

"So there's no way to know how many other assaults they've actually committed."

"Not if none of their victims are willing to come forward. Look, even if these guys have committed a _dozen_ assaults odds are in their favor that their victims are going to keep quiet about them. Rape has an uncountable number of silent victims. Hell, if that kid hadn't called it in on Eppes, who knows- the guy might've gotten up, gone home to shower, and pretended the whole thing never happened."

"I saw what they did to Eppes...doubt he would've been able to get up on his own. My guess is he didn't walk for several days."

"No arguments there, Gary. Makes me sick every time I look at his case photos."

"Yeah, pretty vicious even for a rape. And carving 'bitch' into his back..." Gary asked a question he'd been mulling over for some time. "Think this was a hate crime? You know, maybe they thought Eppes was gay."

"Possible, but there's no indication that Eppes was- _or is_- gay. And the bar he was hanging out in isn't known as a gathering place...I mean, the actual crime has some overtures of a hate crime and we may end up needing a profiler for this case to be a hundred percent sure. But, Gary, I've been doing this long enough I think I can say from experience that this is a good, old-fashioned sadistic rape that has little to do with the lifestyle of the victim and more to do with the maliciousness of the perps."

"That's bad news…if they were part of a hate group we could start looking there."

"Actually, once our original trail started icing over we sent out a few feelers…none of our CIs has heard anything out on the street nor within any of our groups of interest. I'm afraid, Walker, you might have to accept that Eppes'll is going to be another number in that long list of silent rape victims. Even though we _know_ about his rape, as long as he's not speaking his assailants are beyond our reach."

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It was a word.

It was a touch.

Or maybe a gesture, a reassurance, a newfound confidence…

a small miracle.

Alan didn't know what it was. It could simply have been the medication starting to kick in. That was the sensible answer but hard to believe. Three weeks had passed since Don had started taking it and things had only gotten worse; three long weeks that had been pure misery in his hospital room. With no sedatives before bed Don had been lost in his nightmarish flashbacks for hours- nothing Alan said or did could bring him out of them and all the nurses could do was make sure he didn't hurt himself.

Worse, the fear from these nightly excursions spilled over to thoroughly consume him in the daylight and Don had refused to leave his room, his heightened senses and raw nerves sending him scurrying to the window anytime a nurse entered the room and clinging to his dad at the slightest noise in the hallway. They had only left in order for Don to bathe, quickly and efficiently scrubbing his body while Alan rubbed his hair, a few bare moments with a towel before scuffling still-damp back into his room to seek out a few sunbeams that continued to sneak in through the meshed window.

Alan had not left him.

Not even to call Charlie. Once, a few days in, he had managed to tell Charlie that he wouldn't be able to talk, that he'd have to trust him that calling was out of the question for a while. Surprisingly, Charlie hadn't argued, had offered words of support and promised to call once a week to check.

"I'll be patient till then, Dad. And I'll square it with Millie for you. But if you need anything, _you _give me a call."

Alan hadn't even had time to think through this change in Charlie's behavior, this newfound exhibition in self-control and maturity. He'd been driven back to Don's room immediately and all thoughts of Charlie were torn from his mind; all thoughts of anyone else but Don and four predators that continued in their hunt. Alan was so long from contact with anyone but a few hospital personnel that he began to wonder if _he _was interred with Don and nobody had bothered to inform him.

Three weeks Don was sheltered in his room, refusing to leave and attend therapy…

Till finally Dr. Saunders had caved to Don's plea.

Well, that was Alan's way of looking at it.

She kept insisting Don would get better as the medicine began to work, he would start talking and dealing with what had happened and with that progression they could gauge the effects of his current prescription. Then, _only then, _would they consider adding more medication. So Alan waited once again, Dr. Saunders deciding to be productive by catching up with her regular patients at her other office-

"I'm normally there in the afternoon, so this gives me a chance to see them at their usual times instead of later in the evening-"

Alan doing his best to write down any behavior changes he observed in Don and trying his best not to pull out his hair in frustration when he thought about what he observed cause it was monotony set in stone.

Three long weeks before Dr. Saunders decided a new course of action was merited and she met with Dr. Wyndham. Finally, Don was prescribed anti-anxiety medicine two nights previously…and thank heavens, came sleep. At least, it came for Don.

None came for Alan, who grappled with the sandman nightly as he perused his notes like an addict in an attempt to find something positive in all that had been happening.

Nothing, he was sure of it. There was nothing there.

Till today, a small miracle in an oversized robe that Alan had previously dismissed as a hallucination of Don's scarred mind…

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Alan stood in the doorway of Don's hospital room, desiring some fresh air but not wanting it without the company of his son. So he stood on the threshold, staring down a long hallway that was currently taking him nowhere.

"Alan."

He turned abruptly and smiled tiredly at the familiar face. "Jody."

"It's been a while." Jody came up to Alan, a nurse a standing a few paces behind, an unidentified form clinging to his back. "Haven't seen you at group."

"No…no, Don hasn't been up to it."

"Yes, I know how that goes." Jody stretched an arm behind him and gently tugged. "We're on our way there now. I don't believe you've met my son, Jacob."

He patted the back of a bent head. Alan watched as it lifted upwards cautiously and then he gasped.

"Is there something wrong, Alan?"

Alan was slightly stunned. In the back of his mind, he remembered Don mentioning that he'd seen Charlie during group but he'd dismissed it as a hidden desire on Don's part to see his brother. But now, as Alan stared at him, he too was taken aback by how much Jacob looked like a younger version of Charlie.

It was plain eerie.

"Alan…?"

He shook his head with a quick jerk. "It's nothing…nothing really. It's just that Jacob…really, he is the smitten image of my younger son, Charlie."

"Hmmm. That is something else." Before he could comment further, their nurse interrupted and pointed out the time. "Gotta go, now. You sure Don doesn't want to come, too?"

"I'm afraid he's not-"

An arm was suddenly through his and Alan turned around, stunned for the second time in minutes.

"Donny?"

"I'll go." Don looked away, his eyes ever downward at the floor, hand moving agitatedly up and down the seams of his robe.

Alan didn't ask twice. He gladly followed Jody and Jacob to group, dropping Don off at the door and watching him enter, take a seat straight across from Jacob, fix his eyes on the boy. Alan didn't notice when Dr. Evans came up to him and said a few words; he just nodded and mumbled nonsensical words. Then the door shut and Jody was leading him away to have coffee.

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"Danish, uh? Must be having a good day."

Alan wiped his mouth with a tiny napkin before responding. "No day's a good day as long as Donny's still here. You should know that, Jody."

"I'm sorry, Alan. I know that is true. Still, he hasn't been to group but the one time…surely his going today is something worth celebrating?"

"Maybe." Alan swallowed the last of his pastry and chased it down with some coffee.

"Besides, from the look of you a little something sweet couldn't do you any harm."

Alan couldn't help but look down at his body. There was no doubt he had lost considerable weight in the almost two months since he'd first found out that Don had been raped. With a sigh, he pinched his stomach and was dismayed to feel the layer of loose skin that was sadly sagging from it. A big man, Alan had always prided himself with the fact that he was solid, not chunky or fat. It was now apparent to him that he was suffering from as much of a loss of appetite as Don was.

"Well, I think the skinny look is in anyway. Just call me fashionable."

"No doubt." Jody laughed.

The two men relaxed into a companionable silence. Alan was happy to be out of the hospital. He might not be sharing fresh air with Don but at least they were both free of their hospital room.

"So," Jody changed topic, "how is Don doing?"

"Obviously not so well. He's been on antidepressants for three weeks now. Can't say they're doing him any good. Flashbacks have been so bad a couple nights ago they had to add anti-anxiety pills at night."

"You were hoping to see some improvement by now?"

"I suppose so. It seems like we waited so long for medication and now that he's taking it...I don't know, maybe I'm expecting too much." Alan drank the last of his coffee in one long gulp, rose from his seat and refilled his mug, returned to his seat across Jody and began adding cream to his drink.

Once his friend was seated, Jody leaned forward and nodded at a clipboard Alan had laid on the table. "You've been keeping notes?"

Alan glanced at the thin sheaf of papers. "When I've had time. Dr. Saunders thought the clipboard would make it easier for me to jot down my observations."

"Do you mind if I take a look?"

Alan only hesitated a moment before giving him his notes. Even though they'd only met twice, he trusted Jody-especially now that he'd seen Jacob. Alan wasn't sure but he thought it was a sign that things were going to be alright. That was the way he always felt when his sons were together. Of course, he understood that Jacob wasn't Charlie. But he wanted to believe that somehow, in the persistent manner in which he always got his way with Don, Charlie had managed to get in to the hospital to be with his brother through a visage of himself and that comforted Alan. One way or another, Charlie and Don were always alright when they were a team.

With very little to be hopeful over in the past two months, whether it made sense or not, and even if Jacob was only symbolically his son- seeing the younger Charlie and Don together was something of promise to which Alan could cling.

"Well, now…" Jody scanned Alan's notes. "Seems to be quite a bit of change, especially the last week."

Alan's eyes darkened. "I know. His flashbacks increased and he couldn't sleep at night. I know because I couldn't either. He…he screamed for so long." Alan's fingers gripped the edge of the table as he admitted, "Sometimes I-I wished I could cover his mouth so I wouldn't have to hear him anymore." His eyes cleared and he looked away. "I'm…I'm a monster for thinking such thoughts."

"No, Alan. To hear your son like that must be horrifying to say the least...as hard as it's been with Jacob I've never had to go through anything like that. He keeps his pain locked up safely and quietly inside."

"Except when the flashbacks force it out of him, so does Don." Alan faced Jody, relieved to know he could empathize with why he sometimes felt the way he did. "It's been two months and he still won't talk. You see, nothing has changed."

"That's where you're wrong Alan. And I'm not talking about his flashbacks."

Alan took the clipboard and reread it. "I don't see anything different…"

"His agitation…that's different." He flipped a page and pointed out several notations, flipped several more. "Look, when you think of what's happening with Don the flashbacks stand out because they're so horrible. But take a look at the time in-between and you can see that Don is acting more agitated."

"I noticed that," Alan agreed, "but that's not him getting better, that's him getting worse. He's been jumping at every little noise, more than ever before."

"Maybe so, but think about it, Alan. What do you need in order to jump?"

Alan tossed the clipboard down. "I don't know- a lot of anxiety? They started Don on medication for that."

"No," Jody explained patiently, "I mean, yes. That causes it. Alan, when we first came here you told me that Don just sits around and does nothing all day."

"Yes. And that hasn't changed- he stills does nothing all day."

"Not according to your notes." Jody was gesturing excitedly with his hands. "Apparently, Don is more agitated now and _he's constantly fidgeting. _That's movement, Alan- action, energy, motion. Whatever you want to call it, Don isn't sitting still anymore."

Alan picked up his notes and read them once again. Then he tugged his ear perplexedly. "But he's always been fidgety- he claws at his skin, pulls at his scars…"

"Not to the extent he has in the past week. According to your observations, he's moving non-stop… and not only his hands. He's been pacing his room. And when he bathes, I believe you said he rushes to the bathroom and back again. That's a whole mess of activity for someone who's sitting in his room and doing _nothing _all day."

Alan sat back. He had to think. Was Don more active? _Was_ he doing more?

"But there's no purpose in what he's doing."

"There doesn't have to be. Listen, I saw Don- he's looks like the athletic type."

"He is- played baseball when he was younger, still works out. Really, he can stay awake for days."

"So, what's the worse thing for him? I mean, you know him…when does he complain the most on the job?"

Alan hadn't mentioned what Don did for a living, but Jody didn't need to know what it was in order for him to understand that Don must do something in which he could be active. Nobody sat in front of a computer screen all day long and kept in shape like Don did.

And suddenly Alan understood the point Jody was making. "Don hates it most when he has a lot of paperwork…or…or when he's laid up from his job." Alan swallowed thickly, his eyes going wide. "Don's restless because he's always been energetic and sitting around in a hospital room is against his nature. He hates standing or sitting around and doing nothing."

Alan leaned across the table, his own excitement barely contained. "This restlessness of Don's…it's _normal _behavior for him. I haven't seen anything normal in the way he behaves in so long...I...I didn't recognize it for what it was."

He beamed as he proclaimed to his friend. "The medication _is _working. Don is acting more like himself. He's finally heading home."


End file.
